
(lass 3l^£ 



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PRESENTED BY 



rhe Victims' 
Return 



By NOELLE ROGER 



77 



THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



THE 
VICTIMS' RETURN 

By NOELLE ROGER V 

4 

WITH AN HISTORICAL NOTE BY 

EUGENE PITTARD 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 









First Published 191 8. 



GIFT 
liG 23 



• 



Printed in Great Britain. 



TO THOSE WHO GUIDED, HELPED, AND SUPPORTED THIS 

SCHEME FOR REPATRIATING INTERNED AND 

EVACUATED CIVILIANS; 

TO THOSE WHO SHOWED THEM DEVOTION AND LOVE; 

TO THAT ANONYMOUS HOST WHICH CAME TO WELCOME 

THEM, MINGLED ITS TEARS WITH THOSE OF THE 

VICTIMS, AND SO GAVE THEM 

THE GREATEST OF ALL CONSOLATIONS IN THEIR HOURS 

OF sadness; 



I JSettcate this $x>ok. 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 
SCHAFFHAUSEN I 

Zurich - - - - 3 2 

Geneva - - - - 59 

Historical Note - - - 119 



vn 



THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



THE PROCESSION OF VICTIMS AT 
SCHAFFHAUSEN 

The months October, 1914, to February, 1915, 
will be remembered in the annals of Schaff- 
hausen — a small, smiling town on the banks of 
the river which seemed to turn its thoughts and 
sympathy to Germany. A trustful little town, 
which had a rude awakening from its dreams and 
illusions. When, day after day, night after 
night, it watched the procession of interned and 
evacuated French folk, it suddenly came into 
terrible contact with the horror of this war. 

At first these people were interned civilians — 
families caught unawares in Germany by the 
declaration of war and taken off into concentration 
camps. There were tourists among them, pil- 
grims from Alsace-Lorraine, and young people 
completing their education or spending their 
holidays in University towns beyond the Rhine. 
Soon these were followed by inhabitants of the 
invaded districts of France, who had been im- 

1 1 



THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



prisoned in Germany and were now being repa- 
triated — old folk, women, children, invalids, 
helpless people. (Men between sixteen and sixty 
years of age were detained " back there.") An 
exodus, this, of a whole population, shaken and 
flung together by the chances of disaster; a 
rabble of unfortunates of widely different stations, 
torn from their homes — often without being able 
to take a thing with them, and possessing only 
the poor clothing they wore. There were mayors, 
municipal councillors, priests — seized as hostages 
— families which had lost half their members; 
children without parents; dazed old men; poor 
grannies who had never been outside their village ; 
middle-class folk and workpeople; pedlars and 
peasants; wives of superior officers; magistrates, 
and doctors; Sisters of Mercy and prostitutes; 
poor-law children, half-witted creatures; para- 
lytics carried on stretchers; civilians who had 
been wounded. . . . 

Amid this extraordinary disorder one saw 
crowds of human beings moving like sheep, going 
they knew not whither, swept along together by 
a storm of unprecedented violence which, day 
after day, flung up fresh waves of misery, all the 
same, but all different — poor, ill-starred, stunned, 
docile creatures who bowed to their destiny with- 
out comprehension or protest. 

Schaffhausen witnessed their passing. 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 



M. Henri Moser, a Federal Commissioner, 
together with M. Spahn, organized a reception 
committee, though he had but a small amount of 
public money at command— expenses have been 
heavy in Switzerland since war broke out. As he 
felt in honour bound to give the public an unfor- 
gettable object-lesson, as it were, he allowed all 
comers access to the station platforms. When 
the train of refugees arrived, closed and sinister, 
and when the doors at last were opened and 
slowly disgorged this crowd of wan-cheeked, 
crushed unfortunates— the good people of Schaff- 
hausen were horror-struck, believing that they 
saw the chill spectre of all the tragedies whereof 
these travellers brought with them the terrible 
remembrance. 

Then occurred a spontaneous, irresistible move- 
ment. Clothes and food flowed in: the very 
poorest brought their offerings. Workmen, 
townspeople, peasants— all took part. M. Moser 
wished them to enjoy the pleasure of making 
their offerings in person. Gifts were not regis- 
tered: givers refused to tell their names. School- 
children clubbed their lunches and distributed 
them. The least wealthy villages in the canton 
joined in the common good work. Their inhabi- 
tants, one after another, brought clothes, sacks 
of potatoes, fruit. From all the surrounding 
country carts arrived laden with provisions; col- 



THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



lections were made in. town-halls and churches; 
shopkeepers closed their shops of an afternoon to 
be able to help receive the refugees. From the 
young girl who in the street took off her furs and 
threw them round the shoulders of a refugee — 
saying to M. Moser, " I give them because of all 
things I love them the best : I got them at Christ- 
mas " — to the most destitute of the working folk, 
all took a share in this united effort of a populace 
striving to bring consolation and comfort to 
others. 

Ever since that time Schaffhausen has been 
doubly dear to us. 

MM. Moser and Spahn had formed a committee 
of a hundred and thirty-nine members, and 
begged them above all things to be gentle and 
kind, as he knew well that the most important 
thing was not the distribution of gifts, but tender- 
ness and moral consolation. He was anxious to 
make our guests feel restored to family life. 

The convoy arrived between three and four 
o'clock in the afternoon. When the transference 
of the baggage into the Swiss train had been com- 
pleted, the refugees were divided into several 
sections and handed over to members of the 
committee, who took them away to be fed. 
• Graciously were th ey led through the streets 
Young Schaffhausen took charge of the children 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 



and lent an arm to the old folk, while the rest of 
the populace formed an escort. The travellers 
gazed round them at the paved roads, so clean 
and quiet; at the large-roofed houses; at the 
seemly, well-cared-for appearance of our little 
town, with its look of smiling good-humour, and 
kept saying — their own village in their thoughts — 
" How quiet it is here \" 

As they passed, shop doors flew open. Good 
folk offered them some dainty, shook them by 
the hand. Women stood tiptoe on their door- 
steps. Handkerchiefs were waved. No ! they 
were not strange streets, these streets which the 
exiles now saw for the first time. It seemed to 
them that they were returning to a place they 
loved in days gone, by, where folks whom they 
knew welcomed them with open arms. People 
who for weeks and months had encountered the 
hostility of men and things seemed now to awake 
from a long nightmare, and at a bound to escape 
the misfortune in which they had been engulfed. 

Each of the conductresses halted her squad 
before the inn allotted to it—one of those inns 
which still, in accordance with old custom, have 
a sign swinging over the door, which preserve a 
touch of domesticity, a dignified air, a flavour of 
affable hospitality. 

They went inside. In the great bright hall, 
with its shining wainscoting, specklessly clean, a 



THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



table had been laid. All the guests were found 
places, served with coffee, gently encouraged to 
eat; and many were so moved by this first meal 
offered them in kindness that they could not 
restrain their tears. Young girls vied in render- 
ing small necessary services, such as writing 
letters, sending telegrams, giving information. 
M. Moser had insisted that, above all things, the 
refugees should feel themselves at liberty. So, 
after the meal, they were taken into the prettiest 
old streets of the city. At every step came fresh 
tokens of this unobtrusive sympathy, conveyed 
by a gesture, a word, a stealthy gift. 

If the weather were fine, they went to the falls 
of the Rhine. The travellers gazed at the lovely 
scenery in silence. They returned by train; and 
some of them, leaning on the doors, turned their 
eyes back, still gazing. They will carry away 
with them this precious view of Schaffhausen ; 
they will store up this cheering recollection with 
those of their tragedy. 

" This journey," wrote a girl on returning to 
Paris, " will remain stamped on my memory all 
my life, for it gave me the chance of seeing things 
which were unknown to me. I had heard people 
talk often enough of lovely Switzerland, but my 
imagination could not picture what my eyes have 
now actually admired. I am quite pleased to go 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 



back to school to begin work again, and tell my 
mistress and schoolfellows of all the interesting 
things I have seen in Switzerland. I can still 
see Mont Blanc, and the falls of the Rhine, and 
all the Swiss Mountains/' She signed herself 
" Your little repatriated friend, Madeleine." 

One refugee woman wrote from Annemasse: 
" This journey will never be effaced from my 
thoughts." Another : " Nowhere in the world have 
I met people so lovable as those in Switzerland." 

Ah ! all those letters that have reached us ! 
Elegant screeds; well-phrased notes; faultless 
formulae expressing sincere feeling; poor, badly 
spelt, touching missives in which clumsy fingers 
have forced themselves to convey strong emotion. 
We cannot quote them here ; but they show once 
again how right M. Moser was in making our 
people his chief helper, and giving them full scope 
for carrying out the humble, unsung, sweet work 
of help and consolation. 

One after another the squads passed into 
the splendidly organized clothing depot. The 
refugees were made to pass in file before long 
tables laden with things all ticketed and sorted. 
Each woman could mention and select the 
things she needed most. There were outfits for 
children and layettes: linen, too, and clothes for 
the men. 



8 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

The latter in many cases were very modest. 
" Yon mustn't give me so many things," said an 
old countryman who had lost his all, " or there 
won't be enough left for the others." 

The pleasantest time in the day was the even- 
ing meal. Each detachment returned to its ap- 
pointed inn, and repaired to the dining-hall with 
its now familiar table. The poor victims of mis- 
fortune were growing accustomed to this new 
atmosphere; to faces which had so quickly be- 
come dear to them. They felt at their ease, 
among friends, and many of them began to 
smile again. M. Moser spoke a few words of 
kindly welcome, telling them how delighted the 
people of Schaffhausen were to receive them. 
An old Frenchman rose to reply. Sometimes he 
was an old peasant, unready of speech, but who 
nevertheless was determined to express his 
thanks. 

A choral society or some orchestra or other 
would drop in at the end of the meal to play 
Swiss airs and sing the " Marseillaise." This 
brought smiles to the refugees' faces, and often 
made them turn their heads away and cry. 

When, at ten o'clock, they were put in the 
train for Geneva, they took away with them the 
impression of having been at a family gathering, 
a family subdued and serious, saddened by mourn- 
ing, but recovering, by the love that its members 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 



showed, courage to live. Leaning out of the 

carriage-doors, they tried to get a last glimpse of 

the town through the darkness. And they saw, 

crowded together on the iron bridge, groups of 

Schaffhausen folk who had come to bid them 

good-bye. 

***** 

In the station itself a hospital had been ar- 
ranged. A single convoy included fifty-six con- 
sumptives. The long procession of stretchers 
was a sad sight. 

It was towards the end of October, 1914. The 
train had just come in, and several stretchers were 
already en route for the infirmary. From a 
carriage there emerged a poor fellow, terribly 
thin and wan, with sweat trickling in large drops 
down his face. He seemed to be dying. They 
took him away and laid him on one of the beds. 
A little later a nurse was greatly surprised to find 
the " dying " man busily engaged in bolting 
everything that was offered him. He had re- 
covered from his exhaustion. He pointed to his 
cap, on which the notice " deaf-mute " was dis- 
played, and expressed his thanks by signs. He 
had but one arm, and that was tuberculous. On 
the bed next to him they had laid an old con- 
sumptive, whom a nurse was persuading to 
drink a cup of cocoa. ^VJien this refreshment 
enabled him, |o s^eak, he said that, but for the 



io THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

help given him, he would never have reached the 
end of his journey alive. 

1 [e came from Soissons, and asked news of his 
town. " Yonder they were told that Paris had 
fallen and that France was beaten. But nobody 
was going to believe that." 

The nurse, fearing he would tire himself, ad- 
vised him to sKcp until the time came to leave. 
The old man replied: 

" Who wants to sleep in such pleasant com- 
pany ?" The poor old fellow, doomed though 
he was, and handed about like a pitiful item of 
baggage, yet managed to find something agree- 
able to say ! 

Ah! the old folk whom this Schaffhausen in- 
firmary has seen pass through it ! Shrivelled 
countrywomen, who had managed to reserve 
their bonnets, a black kerchief crossed on their 
breasts, dragging their clogs painfully along the 
ground, and carrying most carefully in the hand 
some nondescript object saved in the general 
scramble and guarded all the journey through. 
One had her warming-pan; another a pipkin full 
of melted butter. Some were still lively and 
talkative— they could not read; they had never 
been outside their Villages; they never would have 
believed that the world contained so much room. 
•They talked about all kinds of old-fashioned 
customs, referred to the leech or the bonesetter, 



SCHAFFHAUSEN n 

named the doctor "the veterinary" or even "the 
priest," and described marvellous remedies in 
which they placed implicit confidence. They had 
a word to say, too, about the happenings which 
had upset the tenor of their lives — quite unex- 
pected opinions. " War ! . . . Who could have 
believed it to be so awful?" — "Anyway, last 
time the Prussians did us no harm." — " Last time 
can't be compared with this " — and so on. 

Some had a distracted look: the catastrophe 
had unhinged their minds, plunging them into a 
childishness from which they will never emerge. 

One bent, broken-down peasant had brought 
away nothing but the key of his ruined house — 
a massive and many-warded key, now his sole 
possession. He kept it in his hand, and, when he 
ate, laid it down beside him. This absolutely 
useless key was the one thing that still had any 
value for this tragical old fellow, whose eyes 
seemed ever to see his misfortune there before him. 

Most of the refugees were silent, wrapped in 
the sadness of resignation. They no longer knew 
where they were. For goodness knows how long 
they had been moved hither and thither, penned 
like cattle ! They had but a confused recollec- 
tion of an unaccountable disaster which had 
burst over them, tearing them adrift from every- 
thing they had loved for three-quarters of a 
century or more — tearing them away from the 



12 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



countless little things that made up their lives 
and kept them on their feet, alive and active. 
Now — they are but wrecks: they will never be 
their old selves again; nothing can make good 
the damage done them; they will never take root 
again. 

They are led away, they are led back, docile 
as tiny children. They thank one politely. 
They seem lost in dreams, and have no clear 
notion of where reality begins. Once, hostile 
faces hemmed them in; now, by a righteous turn 
of the wheel of fortune, they find friendly faces 
smiling at them. If they can still manage to 
walk, one gives them an arm along the street. 
They see the weakest of their number carried by 
on stretchers. On the}' go, subdued, bent. Said 
one of them, turning towards me his shrivelled 
face, the flesh of which seemed dead already: 
" My wife remained at home. Do you think 
I shall find her again ? One should never have 
left. . . ." 

They had looked on at the pillaging and burn- 
ing of their farm. They had seen their cattle, 
tended with so much care, gallop off — or perhaps 
they saw their cows and bullocks led away by the 
Germans. One of them, a horse-breeder, whose 
mares and foals had all been taken, had become 
crazy. Another, while in the train that was 
carrying him to Germany, kept saying at every 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 13 

station: " I want to get out ! It's time for me 
to go and feed my beasts." 

Oh ! these poor old peasants from the Ardennes, 
the Meuse and Lorraine, whose doings, repeated 
day after day so .many, many times, become as 
it were a ritual. They sowed their wheat and 
tended their cattle. Slowly, slowly came pros- 
perity. Grandchildren grew up around them. 
It was a modest form of human happiness, yet 
it sufficed. And in a few days all was scattered 
to the winds — wrecked. Then they understood 
things no longer. 

In a village near Saint-Mihiel a grandmother 
was dandling a three-year-old granddaughter on 
her knees when a shell exploded, disembowelling 
the child and wounding the old woman in the 
hands. Aghast, she stared at the corpse, which 
she still clung to, while all its blood mingled with 
her own. On the morrow she had to start for 
Germany. They put her in the train with her 
daughter — the mother of the dead child — a poor 
thing who wept incessantly, and who, unaided, 
had tended the wounded hands, bandaging them 
as best she could. The grandmother was frozen 
stiff with horror, ever seeing the little bleeding 
body on her knees, but she shed not a tear. 

At Metz the Germans made her leave the train, 
while her daughter was compelled to go on to 
Rastadt. There, at Rastadt, as a result of 



14 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

many inquiries made by a German officer with 
some humanity in him, tins poor woman hoard of 
the death of her mother a few days later. 

Of all those sufferings, obscure and heart- 
rending, no one will know. Surely we cannot be 
too pitiful! A repatriated woman told me: " I 
had with me my boy of eight, lie died down 
there. 1 am returning all alone." 

An old woman said: "I know well enough 
that we ought not to have stayed so close to the 
frontier. But what can you expect — we were 
born there ?" 

Facts became confused in their memories. The 
endless journey of to-day has already blended 
itself with the awful journey made through Ger- 
many when they were torn from their homes. 
The very names of countries have got jumbled up. 
Are they in Germany ? or in Switzerland ? or in 
France ? They can't say. They only know 
that their " place " — their farm, the village 
steeple— exists no longer, and that they will not 
behold those well-known scenes again. 

A deaf old woman, seeing people smiling and 
offering her their hands, shouted at the top of 
her voice — unaware that she was in Switzerland 
— " Long live Germany !" And for a long time 
all attempts to make her stop were useless. 

Another said: "In this town 'Entrance' 
[Eingang] people have been very good to ns." 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 15 

All these old men and women whom we saw file 
past a I Schaffhausen, Zurich, and Geneva — drag- 
ging themselves along leaning on the arm of our 
police, carried in motor-cars, borne on stretchers, 
helpless, with their legs hanging down, their 
staring faces — piteous lumps of humanity, from 
whom at times a cry was wrung by suffering, 
paralyzed old women, crippled old men, con- 
sumptives, asthmatics, some half blind, others 
deaf, others distraught, all alike and yet all 
different — a sorrowful stream which never ceases 
to flow ! Ah ! who could describe a wretchedness 
such as never was seen before ? 

We came across them again at Annemasse, 
huddled together in a corner of the waiting-room. 
" Where are you off to ?" 

" I don't know." Or perhaps they made no 
reply, merely shaking their heads sadly. 

" But are you not going by this train ?" 

A shake of the head — " I don't know." 

It is the indifference of despair. Fate casts 
them hither, throws them back thither. Poor 
old folk whom one takes by the arm, and hoists 
into the carriages — one kindly person pushing 
behind while another pulls in front — who sink 
exhausted on to a scat, whose dull silence seems 
to say: " How long are we to go on like this ? 
How long ?" 

Ah ! all these old people whom we have seen 



16 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

go by ! Their tears are slow to come ; their 
silence is appalling. Had they complained, one 
could at least have tried to give them a little hope. 
But they never complained. Some uttered a 
few childish words, simple words of thanks, as if 
they could not accustom themselves to rinding a 
little fleeting sweetness amid this never-ending 
catastrophe. 

When we look at them stretched on the in- 
firmary mattresses, or seated in a corner, with 
heads bowed down, shoulders bent, their grey 
locks in disorder, their limbs numbed, their 
knotted hands now quite soft, we cannot picture 
that once, some months ago, they were alert, 
active old women, fine, strong old fellows who 
guided the plough, and at the end of the field drew 
themselves up and smiled back at the newly 
turned furrow; and of an evening smoked their 
pipes before the farm door ; and on Sunday walked 
in groups discussing village matters, while follow- 
ing with their eyes the lads who were beginning 
to take their places. 

Villages of France with tuneful names, the mere 
sound of which conjures up severe old houses, 
old-time farms, steeples with pure lines, fields all 
around climbing the hills, a limited horizon all 
sweetness and grandeur, lines of trees which run 
along quiet streams wherein stooping women wash 
their linen, singing the while ! Unknown villages 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 17 

whose names leaped into fame or tragedy, when 
your churches rang the tocsin and answered one 
another across the fields ! What one among yot 
had forebodings of approaching fate ? What are 
you to-day ? Gutted houses, wrecked farms, 
calcined rubbish, shattered towers. Like your 
old, ruined peasants, you are given up to silence 
and despair. Oh ! these bodies, half destroyed: 
bodies from which the over-tortured soul has fled ! 
Their families are scattered; their children lost. 

The villages — no doubt they will be rebuilt. 
In new bell-towers the bells will ring again. 
Young trees will shoot up beside the shattered 
trunks; beside old, unforgettable suffering happi- 
ness will come to life again, patiently, slowly. 

But these old hearts — how many of them will 
remain unconsoled ! How many of them will 
go down to the grave, how many will reach the 
journey's end, still mute and broken ! 

The infirmary at Schaffhausen has seen indes- 
cribable misery pass through it . Many of the chil- 
dren were ill with coughs and fever; others were 
worn out. It was piteous to see these poor 
creatures whom their mothers had not been able 
to tend in their flight. Many of the repatriated 
when they arrived were suffering from quinsy, 
a disease which was especially virulent in the 
Rastadt cells, and the nurses at Schaffhausen 



THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



caught it from their charges more or less seriously. 
Several of them were laid up with it for weeks; 
one young woman did not recover for eight 
months; and a girl, Marguerite Biedermann, died 
from it. 

When I watch a group of girls helping the 
refugees to carry their baggage along the station 
platform, or leading the slow procession through 
the streets, I always see among them the shade 
of Marguerite Biedermann. 

She was twenty-four years old. Young, en- 
thusiastic, and modest, she was beginning to 
find life a little too easy for her, and dreamed of 
becoming an artist. She gave up painting for 
nursing; and, while her father made himself re- 
sponsible for the heavy task of entertaining the 
refugees, and her mother busied herself with the 
clothing department, she devoted her energies to 
the sick who came in. Every day for four 
months she was at her post. Furthermore, she 
often accompanied convoys to Geneva, working 
all the night through and never ceasing to help 
and comfort the wretched, broken-hearted travel- 
lers. When she was stricken with the disease, 
the symptoms of which all who tended the refu- 
gees knew only too well, she kept on with her 
work regardless of her health, and struggled on to 
the end. At last she had to give in, and died 
after several weeks of suffering. 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 19 

She died on the battlefield in the fulfilment of 
her duty, as surely as many a young unknown 
hero who dies in the defence of his country. 

I cannot record here all the tragedies witnessed 
in this station infirmary, but I will recall just one. 

One evening the Federal Commissioner at 
Schaffhausen was informed that there was in the 
infirmary a woman whom it was dangerous to 
allow to leave, since she was threatening to commit 
suicide. He went to see her at once, and found 
quite a young girl lying on one of the beds, shaken 
from head to foot by paroxysms of weeping — a 
poor distraught creature who had completely lost 
her self-control. She came from Alsace and 
could not speak French. He managed to calm her 
a little and to get from her some disjointed words 
which enabled him to piece her story together. 

When but seventeen she had married the 
French accountant of a large industrial concern 
in Alsace. When the war broke out her husband, 
along with all the Frenchmen in the town, was 
summoned to the town-hall. Next day they left 
for Rastadt. All their wives and children watched 
them leave. There were heartrending partings. 
The men had to get into the train. The young 
accountant, distracted by this terrible scene — 
his wife had had to be torn from his arms — 
already showed signs of an over-excitement which 
his companions vainly tried to calm. 



20 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

At a station in Germany where they were made 
to alight — though nobody knows exactly what 
happened — the man was seen struggling fran- 
tically with some German non-commissioned 
officers. A scuffle followed, and the prisoner got 
a thrust from a bayonet. They led him off, and 
next day his companions heard that he had been 
shot. His clothes, riddled by bullets, were sent 
back to his family ! 

Meanwhile the little widow, unaware of her 
misfortune, was sent to Germany and interned 
there. In the train which was bringing her back 
to her native land she had just learned the truth 
from one of her husband's companions. She 
knew nobody in France; yonder there was only 
her stepmother, who had opposed her marriage. 
She could see but one thing to look forward to— 
death. 

All this the Commissioner gathered. He rea- 
lized that the girl could be saved in one way only. 
He took her with him to his wife. The little 
widow became the pet of the house, and learned 
again how to smile. 

At 10 p.m. everyone has been found a place in 
the carriages. The children are made to lie down, 
and we try to cheer up the old folk. Just before 
eleven the train pulls out amid cries of " Vive la 
France \" from Schaffhausen people leaning over 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 21 

the bridge. Handkerchiefs are waved. Good- 
byes are exchanged by strangers who are strangers 
no longer ; affectionate signals are waved through 
the shadows and received by the travellers. 

The train rolls along through fields, now quite 
shrouded in darkness. As one passes through 
the carriages one stops and feels tears rise to the 
eyes at the sight of all these little sleeping tots. 
These north-country families are large — five, six, 
seven, ten children. They have arranged them- 
selves as best they could. Little brothers and 
sisters are lying two-and-two on the seats, with 
hair intermingled. In some cases mothers have 
close together on their knees two fair heads, two 
round faces almost exactly alike, their quiet 
breath uniting in one. They nod at us, or smile 
as we pass: "Yes, they are sleeping nicely. I 
am all right, thank you !" 

Then they resume their drowsy reveries, head 
leaning back against the wall, eyes shut, amid the 
little motionless bodies.* Shadows make their 
faces look hollow, bring into relief the marks of 
sorrow and suffering. They are thinking of the 
father at the war, of whom they will at last get 
news. Ah ! what news ? They are thinking of 
the old folk who stayed behind in the invaded 
village — of the eldest son whom the Germans 
seized. 

We go from one carriage to another, and every- 



22 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

where we see the same picture — mothers thinking, 
old men sleeping, broods of tiny children whose 
happy" expressions are, as it were, a smile amid 
all the distress around them. 

Sometimes a lonely woman who cannot sleep 
feels encouraged by the silence in the carriage 
and begins suddenly to talk in a low voice. She 
tells us her story — a confused and tragic story, 
and always the same, yet always fresh, with its 
unexpected details and words which make you 
shudder. You hear of sufferings of which the 
world knows nothing, of living tragedies, tales of 
captivity or death, days of terror, visions of 
massacre. Human life was no longer taken 
account of — her neighbour lay in the street rid- 
dled by bullets — good peaceful folk, known to 
one all one's life, were put against a wall and 
shot. . . . 

" The sky was heavy with smoke, black and red 
in places. . . . 

" At three o'clock in the morning all the in- 
habitants were afoot, looking to their beasts, with 
all speed, to make a start. . . . 

" We had stopped on a little mountain near 
a Red Cross station. The soldiers pointed out 
to us the French army approaching ; we could see 
the cavalry disappearing over the horizon, spread 
out in a most marvellous way. But about eleven 
o'clock we saw the cavalry reappear; reinforce- 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 23 

ments were coming up; we did not know what 
that meant. The Red Cross soldiers said nothing 
more. . . ." 

A peasant tells us this story in a droning voice. 
She still has a look of terror on her rigid face. 

" At half-past eleven a farmer came up to us, 
hat in hand. We thought he was mad. He told 
us that the Germans had driven him out of his 
house and were quite close. We could actually 
see them firing from the windows. We were 
greatly put about when we noticed a farm quite 
close to our house burst into flames. It was like 
a thunder-clap. Bullets passed over us, whistling 
overhead ; one could see only red specks. It was 
a mad journey. All our eyes were wide open with 
terror." 

But the village to which they fled was invaded 
almost immediately afterwards. 

Another saw a woman delivered of a dead child 
in a wood, with the other children close round her. 

" It was six in the evening. An officer came 
up and told us to be off. As for the poor woman, 
I don't know what became of her. There were 
a. thousand of us in flight. . . ." 

Another said: " My neighbour gave birth to a 
child in a field between the two armies." 

" I saw my husband killed at a garden gate," 
said a young woman from Lorraine in a wretched 
mourning dress. " I escaped into a cellar with 



24 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

my little wounded daughter. I had lost sight of 
my two little boys. Then, when day broke, I 
went to look for them : they had lain all night on 
their father's body." 

These awful things arc related as the most 
natural of occurrences, in a matter-of-fact manner 
that makes one shudder. I notice a still young 
woman sitting beside her eighteen - year - old 
daughter, not saying a word, her eyes wide open. 
Her face is thin, and hard with the fixed look 
that we know so well — the look by which, in the 
Savoy villages where they are quartered, we can 
tell at a glance which refugees have actually seen 
the war. 

She, too, begins to talk monotonously and 
quickly, as if she were afraid of not having time 
to finish. In an endless stream fresh scenes recur 
to her mind and pour from her lips. Then she 
stops, and her daughter takes up the tale. The 
mother breaks in now and then to recall some 
overlooked detail. It is a weird and terrible 
duologue. Sometimes they smile. They sup- 
press their voices so as not to wake the sleepers 
in the carriage, but, in spite of their smiles and 
calm tones, how one feels the horror that lives 
in them, and will never leave them ! 

They came from Combres, a Meuse village, not 
far from Saint-Mihiel. On September 7 it was 
invaded for the first time by Germans, who stayed 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 25 

there six days and then had to withdraw. On 
the 27th the bombardment began. The inhabi- 
tants took refuge in their cellars. Presently they 
heard all the doors being struck violently by butt- 
ends of rifles. The Germans had come ! The 
terror-stricken people had to look on while their 
houses were pillaged. 

" At our house they found a bag full of cart- 
ridges which a French soldier had left there. 
That put them into a rage. A German threw 
the bag down and pounded it with his butt. A 
cartridge exploded, and the ball went through 
the ceiling. I had hidden myself with my son 
in a room right up in the roof; and when I heard 
the explosion I thought that they had shot my 
husband and daughter. The boy was taken ill; 
we did not dare open the door, fearing we should 
see. . . . At last my boy went out on to the 
stairs and cried: " Mamma ! our Madeleine is 
there, and papa too; they are alive \" 

A pause of some minutes, then : 

" Next day all the inhabitants had to leave 
their houses, and were collected in the street. 
Machine-gun bullets whistled overhead. On this 
occasion the village was being bombarded by the 
French. We durst not speak, as the sentries had 
been ordered to make us keep silent. 

" After an hour's waiting an officer came up 
to the crowd. Can't you imagine the silent dis- 



26 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

may of all these women and children, their 
anxious looks ? 

" The officer pointed to the high ground where 
the German batteries were and said: " Follow 
me !" The young girl is now telling the story, 
and her voice shakes a little. " There could be 
no doubt about it; we were off to the battle. 
Everybody began to groan with dismay; and 
then a shell burst and wounded a woman and a 
young man. We all took to our heels to shelter 
ourselves near the houses. But the officer angrily 
repeated the order to march. We embraced one 
another, wept, and resigned ourselves to die, as 
die we must. Some sentries followed behind; 
we marched in ranks, and arrived at the top of 
the Hauts de Meuse hill, where we had to sit 
in the blazing sun. The firing stopped for a 
moment, but soon began again harder than ever. 
The German guns replied. We were so near them 
that they seemed to be right among us. We 
huddled ourselves together ..." 

" Yes !" broke in the mother. " But I did not 
want our four heads to be touching, so that we 
should be killed all together. The children said 
to me: ' If you die, we want to die with you.' ' 

She pauses to hunt up a detail. 

" When we reached the foot of the hill I saw, 
just behind us, the cure surrounded by three 
sentries. Shells were falling. I turned my head 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 27 

slowly and saw the cure quickly make the sign 
of the cross as a shell passed. He was giving all 
his parishioners absolution." 

Just imagine these defenceless peasants, these 
women and their little ones, exposed to such 
torture; these families lying flat on the ground; 
the children shrieking as they clung to their 
mother; fathers taking a part in that. . . . Some 
distance away German soldiers were digging 
holes — to shelter in, no doubt. But all kinds of 
imaginings filled those terrified minds. " They 
are digging our graves. They are going to 
shoot us. . . ." 

The young girl goes on. 

" At six o'clock in the evening we were told to 
get up, fall in, and follow the sentries again. We 
came to the church. The women were sent back 
to the houses to fetch food for the men, who had 
to stay inside the church. My mother and I 
first went into the kitchen, where everything had 
been turned upside down. We trod on a litter 
of all kinds of things — papers, utensils. Every- 
thing had been pillaged. We found two pots of 
jam hidden in the chimney. 

" Inside the church things were arranged in 
complete silence. Talking was forbidden: the 
bread was distributed. We arranged ourselves on 
some benches with such blankets as the women 
had been able to find. Now and then an officer 



28 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



and some soldiers went the rounds. Nobody dared 
close an eye. 

" At 4 a.m. we had to go out, and returned to 
the battle, to the same place." (The woman 
said this as if it had been, " We went back to 
the market.") 

" The day passed very slowly. It became hot. 
Two civilians were detailed to fetch water, es- 
corted by sentries. And all the time shells kept 
flying overhead in both directions. At five in 
the evening an officer told us, ' You are going to be 
shot (fusilles) /' ' " He pronounced it ' fusiles,' " 
said the French girl, who even at so tragic a 
moment retained her quickness of observation. 

While the frightened flock were giving way to 
lamentations, a young girl of twenty-four, Jeanne 
Beyer by name, got up. Going straight up to 
the officer without any sign of fear, she said to 
him courteously and clearly: " Why do you want 
to shoot us ? Haven't we always done what you 
told us to do ? Have you no parents and brothers 
and sisters and wives, that you would make us 
suffer like this ?" After that he quieted down, 
and a moment later drew back. 

These few words conjure up the whole scene : 
the nonplussed officer, staring at the village girl 
who stood there in front of him and dared to ask 
him questions; around her the mob of silent 
peasants, spellbound by her daring, regaining hope 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 29 

as they listened to this brave young voice 
raised in their defence ; the officer turning away, 
defeated. 

At nightfall they came down from the Hauts 
de Meuse and returned to the church, where, 
after boiled potatoes had been distributed, they 
lay down on the flagstones to sleep. 

Next day they thought they would have to go 
back to " the battle," but nothing happened. 
Six days passed. The women did the cooking 
on tombstones in the graveyard. People changed 
their linen — they had little enough of it — in the 
confessional. 

One morning they were told that Combres was 
about to be bombarded, and were led to Herbeu- 
ville, some two kilometres away. The people of 
Herbeuville were shut up in the church; those of 
Combres remained standing in the middle of the 
road. Some bombs burst ; then they sank to the 
ground, sitting in the dirt. An order went round : 
" All the men from Combres and Herbeuville 
must fall in, as they are going to start." 

The women uttered cries and clung to their 
husbands: it was a cruel moment. Jeanne Beyer 
stepped forward and asked the officer: " Sir, 
will you allow my sister and me to go with our 
old father, who is seventy ?" " No, miss," he 
answered. "We are going too far; we are off 
to Metz." 



30 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

To Metz ! So far . . . to Germany ! When 
would one see them again ? When would they 
come back ? 

Then came the last despairing embracings. 
Nothing was spared to these poor people of 
Combres and Herbeuville. 

They saw the long procession of men move off 
and turn their heads back, ever looking behind 
them. And the women had to go in the opposite 
direction — two trains of folk who loved one an- 
other and were torn' apart. 

The women and children returned to Combres, 
and spent another four weeks cooped up in the 
church. On October 18 they had to leave, and 
on the 23rd they slept in the Rastadt cells. 

I listened to this story without saying a word, 
and at times I turned my eyes from the two sad 
faces and looked at the country darkling under 
the overcast sky. It seemed to me that all this 
suffering thus set forth by them, and all that 
they had not spoken of but could be guessed, was 
pursuing us through the night. 

The tale goes on, scattered with details which 
give it the ring of truth, without a word of abuse ; 
these women speak in a steady voice of good and 
bad alike. The young girl says : 

" In the train in Germany we had no bread. 
But some was given to the soldiers, and the 
soldiers shared theirs with us." 



SCHAFFHAUSEN 31 

The mother takes her up: " They had put the 
sick on carts, and there were plenty of sick ! 
They brought an old woman wrapped up in her 
eiderdown. She died during the journey. At 
the first village we came to they stopped in front 
of the cemetery and buried her while still quite 
warm." 

" Yes !" said an old man opposite who had 
been listening silently, " what they are telling 
you is true of all our villages." 

He stopped, and looked out of the window at 
the passing trees outlined against the dappled 
sky. 

An old peasant woman who had not yet spoken, 
sitting motionless with her hands folded under 
her apron, suddenly broke in : 

" Ah ! war is a great misfortune I" 

My eyes roved round the carriage over these 
still, mute women among their sleeping children. 
I thought of the train that passed yesterday, of 
that which will pass to-morrow, with the same 
groups, the same expressions, the same tragedies 
—a chorus of sorrow breaking out suddenly. 
And I saw invaded France, Belgium, Poland, 
Serbia — all that suffering humanity. 

Dear God ! 



THE PROCESSION OF VICTIMS AT 
ZURICH 

It was at the beginning of March, 1915, that 
Zurich took her share of the work in hand, as 
the convoys of refugees now halted for a longer 
time and the morning train ran straight through 
to Zurich. 

The small committee, which had served well 
enough so far, as it had little enough to do be- 
sides busying itself with taking hot drinks to the 
train, now had its numbers greatly increased. 
Henceforward the convoys arrived at seven in 
the morning and did not leave till half-past ten. 
About two hundred persons worked at the station 
under the direction of the committee. There 
was plenty to do every day in preparing the re- 
ception on the next. Each morning one had to 
give breakfast to five hundred people, besides 
getting them to wash and providing them with 
garments; to bathe and reclothe the children; 
and to tend the sick. There was never any diffi- 
culty in enrolling kind nurses, male and female. 
Everyone felt greatly encouraged by the splendid 
energy of the population. It can truly be said 

32 



ZURICH 33 



that the town of Zurich, like that of Schaffhausen, 
dedicated itself to the work. Rich and poor — and 
the very poorest of the poor — lent a hand. Those 
who had no money to give gave their time. A 
paper-seller sewed fifty-two children's shirts. 
Every day anonymous parcels of woollen goods, 
knitted articles, and clothing came in. On one 
of these parcels was written: " I give this clothing 
because I know what wretchedness is." 

One day a peasant woman came to look for 
the president of the committee. She had her 
market basket on her arm, and wore the little 
bonnet of the Zurich countrywomen. Presently 
she sat down, drew out a large, countrified-looking 
purse, and said in the Zurich patois: 

" Monsieur le Pasteur, every time I go to 
market to sell my eggs I set aside a few sous, 
and at the end of the year I give them to the 
very poor. I was told this morning that these 
folk who pass through the station are the poorest 
of aU. Is that so ?" 

M. Cuendet assured her that it was. Had 
they not lost everything ? 

Then she emptied the contents of her purse 
into her apron. On being counted, the twenty 
and fifty centime pieces came to more than thirty 
francs. 

She started off, but, overcome by doubts, 
turned back on the doorstep and, to make quite 

3 



34 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

certain, again asked : " Are they really the poorest, 
Monsieur le Pasteur?" He replied: "Just 
arrange to see them go by when we are taking 
them to the Museum; and if you find that 
they are not the poorest I will return you your 
money." 

Some days afterwards, as he was leading his 
slow and miserable flock along the street, he 
suddenly heard himself hailed in a loud voice, 
and there he saw, plant eel on the pavement 
among the crowd of onlookers, the old peasant 
woman. 

" Oh, sir ! Yes ! you are right ! Certainly 
they are the poorest of all people. Take this !" 

She emptied her purse, which contained the 
morning's takings — twelve and a half francs. 

Another day Mmc. Cuendet was visited by a 
very modest-looking, shy woman, who refused 
the chair offered her and remained standing by 
the door. Suddenly, without a word, she held 
out a thousand-franc note, and went away, re- 
fusing to give her name — " because in such cases 
one ought to remain anonymous." 

Some time later the president saw a very 
simply dressed woman enter his room. She be- 
haved in just the same way, would not sit down, 
and laid a thousand-franc note on the table. 
He stared at her in amazement. Her appearance, 
that of a poor working woman, respectable and 



ZURICH 35 



diffident, reminded him of the description given 
by his wife of her visitor. 

" Won't you let me write down your name ?" 
he asked. 

She shook her head and said, just like the 
other: "It is quite useless; besides, we are all 
brothers." Then she withdrew. 

He had not recovered from his emotion when 
Mme. Cuendet returned. She said to him: " It's 
a funny thing, but I have just met on the stairs 
my giver of the other day." He replied: " She 
has brought another thousand francs for the 
repatriated French !" 

Even more than by the things given them are 
these poor creatures moved by the affection which 
the German Swiss show them in acts of gentle 
pity, and all those little services which they are 
so anxious to proffer: " You see, it is so long a 
time since anyone troubled themselves about us." 

We mention these facts and figures and touch- 
ing expressions of thanks only because it seems 
right to emphasize things which prove how sym- 
pathetic the people of Eastern Switzerland were 
with the French exiles, and the eagerness of a 
whole people to proclaim its brotherhood with 
these poor victims in the only possible manner 
— by opening its heart to them and bringing its 
offerings. 



36 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



Our guests felt this deeply. With an intuition 
sharpened by suffering they would say: " Your 
language is not ours, but your hearts are our 
hearts." 

It was not merely a case of showing sympathy, 
but a protest, a revolt of conscience against such 
a war, for which these people were certainly not 
responsible. 

The towns in which the exile trains stopped 
only a few minutes were anxious to bear their 
share of the common work. A friend of mine, 
on the Berne Committee, told me of the following 
incident : 

In the course of the previous winter, as she 
needed clothes for the refugees, she inserted a 
short appeal in German in all the Bernese papers, 
which appeared on the following day. The even- 
ing papers came out at about four o'clock, when 
she happened to be away from home. On re- 
turning, soon after six, she was astounded to find 
that already a great number of parcels had been 
handed in. The sight moved her to tears. 

On the days following, gifts continued to pour 
in and fill the rooms — right up. to the ceilings, 
she said. It took two packers and six assistants 
four days to despatch them. 

Many districts, notably Saint-Gall and Winter- 
thur, sent clothes to Zurich and Schaffhausen, 
and to Buchs for repatriated Italians. In the 



ZURICH 37 



canton of Fribourg every village sent its con- 
tributions. 

Did we really give anything to these French 
refugees ? Do we not owe them the least bitter 
hours of these last few months — hours in which 
we felt the oneness of Swiss hearts, the blending 
of wills in a great common effort ? Ah ! how our 
poor guests brought us together ! They were the 
bond of union between our furthest frontiers at 
Schaffhausen and Geneva. Though we often 
admired their resignation and their undiminished 
serenity; though we loved them for a quick re- 
sponsiveness which misfortune had made soft and 
tender and sensitive to the least sign of affection, 
we loved them yet more for restoring us to our 
better selves. 

The Zurich Committee received some beautiful 
letters of thanks from the repatriated. " My 
heart was full when I saw your country over- 
flowing with tenderness to us," wrote one old 
man. " Be assured of our everlasting sympathy 
with your country," wrote another. Switzerland 
they described as " The nation that shall ever be 
our sister." 

Besides these came collective letters, for in- 
stance, that of five hundred French refugees from 
the Marne Department who held a meeting at 
Dijon before dispersing: 



38 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

" They had no words to express how comfort- 
ing to them, after the long months of suffering 
under German domination, had been the warm, 
brotherly reception given them at Zurich and 
Geneva. 

" They knew beforehand that Switzerland was 
hospitable and pitiful to those in trouble, yet 
they had been astonished and overcome by the 
care and kindness lavished on them. When 
entering Switzerland they seemed to be entering 
their own motherland. 

" What went to their heart even more than 
this priceless attention was the lively sympathy 
shown everywhere with France. 

" Never will they forget the intelligent and 
devoted care shown them, nor the shouts of 
' Long live France !' which greeted them every- 
where during their journey. 

" And so, when resolving that this letter should 
be sent to the Committees at Zurich and Geneva 
to thank them for the receptions they organized, 
before they dispersed they uttered one cry of 
gratitude: ' Long live Switzerland !' " 

Here is another letter sent by a little village 
to the Zurich Committee, signed by one hundred 
and three persons: 

" Being deeply touched by the account which 
has just been given them by a refugee from 
Mcurthe-et-Moselle of the brotherly, kindly wel- 



ZURICH 39 



come met with in Switzerland, the ladies of the 
Patriotic League of Frenchwomen in one town 
have made it their sacred duty to express at 
length their deep gratitude for those affecting 
proofs of sympathy and those delicate attentions. 

. . That welcome was an untold comfort, a 
healing balm to the wound just inflicted on their 
hearts, when they were torn from their homes 
after already enduring the many sufferings of 
eight months' captivity under the heavy and 
humiliating yoke of Germany. 

" You may be assured, dear friends in Switzer- 
land, that the hearts of us Frenchwomen will ever 
beat with yours and will never forget you." 

In conclusion, I quote from a letter written 
by some little schoolgirls at Trevoux. It is so 
pretty and touching that I should like to reproduce 
it in its entirety.* 

" Dear Friends in Switzerland, 

" We have felt so thankful to you that we 
had to cry. Some articles from the newspapers 
were read to us in class describing how our fellow- 

* I select these letters from among a large number 
simply for their documentary value. They seem to me 
to be such as to dispel an unfortunate misapprehension, 
by showing the real feelings of the people of German- 
Switzerland towards the French. Moreover, these spon- 
taneous revelations of feeling do all honour to those 
whose names they bear. 



40 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



countrymen interned in Germany were welcomed 
at Schafihausen, Zurich, Lausanne, and Geneva 
tt e saw them arrive at Trevoux, the town in which 
our school is. 

" It was on a Sunday in February. We can 
still hear them singing the ' Marseillaise ' as they 
entered the station. Next day they told us what 
a line welcome you gave them. They were foul, 
and you made them clean, showing no repulsion 
at this unpleasant work; they were hungry, and 
you fed them; they were cold, and you warmed 
them. What garments they had were in rags 
and you gave them warm clothing. We have' 
ourselves seen the fine, warm, and still spotless 
polos,' the comforters, and the jackets which 
they received from your hands. Our unfortunate 
brothers were sad and cast down by all their 
suffering and misery, and you spoke to them words 
of love and tender pity. You realized that 
nothing could be sweeter to people who for six 
months or more have endured a hard slavery at 
an enemy's hands than to hear the stirring air 
and vengeance-breathing words of our dear ' Mar- 
seillaise' ; and— a delicate attention which appealed 
to us more than anything else—thev were sung 
by your young girls. During the Easter holidays 
we have seen some more of these unhappy 
prisoners, and they have told us the same story 
with the same quiver of gratitude in their voices 



ZURICH 41 



" We, too, should dearly like to see a Swiss and 
tell him how our hearts swell with thanks and 
admiration for your noble nation. Since we 
cannot convey this in actual speech, we decided 
to write you this letter, as you simply must be 
told what we feel. 

" The study of our nation's history had already 
made us aware of your generosity. We know 
that you showed the same kindness when you gave 
asylum to Bourbaki's ill-starred army in 1871. 
The other day we had to write out for dictation 
a passage from one of our great writers about the 
entry of our soldiers into Switzerland. We still 
remember one sentence which draws an unfor- 
gettable picture : ' At this sight the inhabitants, 
who had come up in hundreds with gifts in their 
hands, burst into tears. They came from the 
towns with clothing, bread, money, meat, and 
drinkables; even the poorest gave something.' 

" Dear Swiss friends, to-day, as in 1871, you 
show us that pity, generosity, and charity still 
endure, though for months past and even at the 
moment of writing the cannon thunder and men 
are killing one another. 

" We thank you, dear Swiss friends, from the 
bottom of our hearts for all you have done. Many 
thanks on behalf of all the poor mothers, children, 
and old people you have fed, clothed, and com- 
forted; many thanks to you from us little French 



42 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

schoolgirls who are your neighbours, as our 
department borders your country. And we can 
thank you with all confidence in the name of all 
the youth of France, which endures, wonders, and 
hopes at this awful and terrible hour. We, the 
young people who are called the France of to- 
morrow, will never forget you. 

" Third- year Pupils of the Higher- 
Grade Primary School at Trevoux, 
Ain Department." 

(Here come the signatures of thirty-two pupils.) 

On this cold morning in December, 1915, it 
was still quite dark when, at half-past seven, the 
train was signalled, bringing 498 persons, in- 
cluding 139 children under twelve years of age, 
from Lille. 

The train came in slowly. At the windows we 
could see small pale faces pressed together round 
the tired faces of their mothers. The travellers 
were made to alight from carriage after carriage, 
and led in numbered detachments to two huge 
dining-halls, where they were immediately given 
places at the tables. As soon as the first detach- 
ment was seated the doors opened again to admit 
the people from the second carriage; then those 
of the third. In this manner the five hundred 
guests, led by white-bloused Zurich girls, were 



ZURICH 43 



distributed quickly, quietly, and in a most orderly 
fashion. What sad, weary, downcast faces ! 
There were melancholy young women surrounded 
by children, some old people, some young boys — 
but no men. They looked like poor townsfolk; 
but here and there was a group of peasants from 
the surrounding villages. They had been evacu- 
ated to Lille. For the second or even the third 
time they had had to leave their chance lodgings 
and set out again. 

Many of them seemed scared and anxious. 
They had been told " over yonder " that they 
would get a bad reception in Switzerland, and 
some of the old people had refused to budge. 

Already some of the refugees began to smile. 
While looking after their children, the women 
managed to say a few words. They spoke of 
the high cost of living, of the shortage of money, 
the many vexations, and the anguish they had 
endured, of the bombs that had recently fallen 
among them. One of them added: " Ah ! when 
one has children it is so very dreadful. If one 
had none, and there were only one's self to 
think of !" 

At the end of one of the tables was an old 
priest. What a number of these old priests 
we have seen pass through ! Their parishioners 
kept close to them, as to a remnant of their old 
church. Their mere presence brought assurance 



44 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

and memories of the village steeple to the weeping 
band. 

The priest now rose and said a few words of 
warm thanks. The president of the Committee 
went up to him and thanked him, saying, as he 
shook his hand, " Monsieur le Cure, we are col- 
leagues, for I am the Protestant minister." 

Again the priest stood up. After a moment's 
silence he exclaimed: "Well, then, sir, let us 
embrace," and embrace they did. 

This priest asked me whether our soldiers were 
always on the frontiers. When I replied that this 
was so, and remarked that it is sometimes a diffi- 
cult matter to mount guard on hills and heights 
covered with deep snow, a poorly dressed woman 
at my side held out two one-franc coupons with 
the words, " For your soldiers." 

Meanwhile a detachment of territorial troops 
dining in the next room made a collection among 
themselves to supply the refugees with small 
Swiss flags. 

The first squad finished its meal and was led 
away to the clothing depot by a male and a female 
guide. The rest waited their turn in the warm 
rooms attached to the buffet. 

Away they go down the street, wherein the 
dawn is breaking, and passers-by flock round them, 
eager and brotherly. They cross the magistrate's 
courtyard at the Museum, or go down into one 



ZURICH 45 



of the basements. Footwear is attended to first 
of all. Ladies briskly ask what is needed, examine 
the sizes, and fit each person with what he requires. 
Then come clothes and underwear. Here is the 
children's table, there the table for men's coats. 
There is haste without confusion. The first de- 
tachment is attended to, and passes out through 
one door as the second detachment enters through 
another. 

,On the station platform the refugees make a 
hurried toilet in front of their respective carriages 
at trucks on which are washing-basins and jugs 
of hot water. Mothers comb out their little 
daughter's hair — they are fair-haired, these chil- 
dren of Lille. The president distributes toys 
among them. One would like to be able to stop 
in the babies' carriage. What a concert of small 
voices ! Just watch them sneezing, with their 
tiny faces all tears or laughter, and the girls, 
their kindly nurses, leaning over the baths and 
washing, scrubbing, and then dressing them, and 
converting the dirty little baggages of a short 
time ago into beautiful, well-cared-for babies. 
What a triumph follows when they are returned 
to their mothers, and the latter hesitate a moment 
before recognizing them ! 

The carriages are now rolling away, and all 
the bodies leaning out of them wave a last 
farewell. Already the train is a long way off, 



46 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

■» 

and one can distinguish only the fading outline 
of handkerchiefs being waved continuously, till 
at last the carriage disappears entirely in the 
distance. 



It was thus that echoes of sufferings at Lille 
reached us. Piecemeal, little by little, we were 
able to reconstruct the story of the last months 
spent there. That morning three whole tables 
in the refreshment room were filled by boys and 
girls from the workhouse at Lille. The girls are 
of all ages up to sixteen, but only quite young 
boys were allowed to leave. What poor, pale, 
wretched little faces they had, so dull, sad, and 
wise-looking ! They sat there in front of their 
bread and cheese awaiting leave to begin to eat. 
The doctor who accompanied them hoped to be 
able to return to Lille. On several occasions the 
Germans took to the workhouse small children 
found beside dead parents in a shelled farm ; 
but it was difficult to save the most weakly of 
them, owing to shortage of milk. Fortunately 
the Americans sent in a supply of Nestle. At 
times coal ran out, and alcohol had to be burned 
on a plate near the babies when they were being 
undressed to protect them against the severe 
cold. 

Refugees told us that typhoid fever had become 



ZURICH 47 



very virulent. But the worst martyrdom at 
Lille was the awful silence that hemmed them in. 
To have no news of dear ones who were known to 
be exposed to death continuously was torture to 
wives and mothers, an anguish clouding every 
moment of the day. 

As they alighted some of them were weeping 
as if they could not stop. " He could not come 
and see us before war broke out, and now he is 
gone — I am sure of it, for he is in Class 17." 
" No ! no ! madam. Class 17 has not yet been 
called to the colours; you are going to see him 
again." 

Oh ! how joy lightened up the tear-streaked 
face ! At first the mother could not believe the 
news; then she became calm and murmured with 
a sob : 

" But he will have to go, and I have none but 
him." 

£ $ $ $ & 

" When war was declared I was able to. escape 
with my wife, my two children, and sister — who 
was expecting a child — and her two children. We 
tramped fifty miles in six days, and as much as 
nineteen miles in one day. We carried the little 
ones turn and turn about when they could walk 
no longer. Our youngster of four did seven and 
a half miles in two hours. The roads were so 
blocked that we had to make wide detours. One 



48 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

woman lost her baby. ... It was impossible to 
take anything with us. We ate as best we could. 
Some people who were driving their cows gave us 
milk for the children. At Soissons a bridge was 
blown up behind us just after we had crossed over 
it. At last we were able to take the train. But 
never, never since then have we managed to get 
word of our old folk who stayed yonder." 

While in the carriage crowded with Roubaix 
families I remembered this story, told me by a 
wounded soldier in hospital, and those words 
haunted me — " Never, never have we been able 
to get news. ..." 

Many others uttered the same cry of despair — 
husbands, fathers, sons. ... I can see again 
the sadness in their eyes. They would weep all 
night under their blankets. Christmas caused 
them unbearable suffering; every day when their 
comrades got their letters they suffered cruelly. 
I can see again the desperate look of a young 
soldier who had quite lost sight of his wife and 
four children: " Oh ! if I only knew whether they 
are still alive !" 

Nowadays we see the other side of the picture : 
hearing the agonized cry which goes up from 
invaded cities, the cry which for a year and a half 
was lost in the silence. Will these voices ever 
unite again ? For how many will it be too late ? 
How many of them will get no answer ? 



ZURICH 49 



We have just left Zurich. We have had our 
last look at the Zurich nurses and members of the 
Committee drawn up on the platform. As the 
train rolled out all the refugees burst into tears, 
overcome by their reception, and feeling that they 
had to face certainties which perhaps would be 
terrible. Some of them tried to express their 
gratitude. 

" We never believed that happiness was so 
near us. . . ." Said another: "In Switzerland 
we discovered France. We shall never forget all 
this." 

Then they took their seats again, and pulled 
up the windows. Each returned to his thoughts, 
and the old pain, which had been dispelled for the 
moment, came back to confront him. 

Tears ran down the face of a young woman who 
kept her eyes fixed on her little daughter. From 
time to time she told her beads. Her large wide- 
open eyes seemed to gaze at things not of this 
earth. 

Her husband was fighting. She had last 
heard of him in February, and it was now 
December. 

" Ah !" she said, " I have prayed so hard to 
God that I may meet him again, and my little 
girl prays every day, too. But so many others 
ask the same thing who ..." 

She breaks off; she does not like to put her 

4 



50 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

thought into words, for do not the right words 
seem to bring the sorrow back again ? 

Her travelling companions also wrap themselves 
up in long periods of silence. All their acts and 
looks betray the obsession that obtrudes itself 
between them and the things of daily life. I 
cannot take my eyes off all these little fair-haired, 
pretty, red-cheeked children playing and prattling 
at their mothers' sides — children who, perhaps, 
are orphaned. Quite a young woman sits in a 
corner with a little girl on her knees. 
" Is that your child ?" 

" No !" She had adopted the little waif. She 
is a working woman who makes soldiers' clothes, 
and is going to her mother at Paris. 

" Oh ! I do hope that I shall find my people 
well and get work at once," she says, looking at 
the child. She has lost all she possessed even to 
her savings-bank book ; everything was taken 
from her. With fine energy she continues : 
" Possessions don't matter, if only we see each 
other again." 

She confides to me that she means to try to 
rent a room on the same floor as her mother. 

" What will your mother say when she sees your 
little adopted daughter ?" 

She smiles prettily and answers: 
" My mother falls in with all my whims," and 
adds confidentially: " You see, when one marries 



ZURICH 51 



one is not always happy. Isn't that so ? /, at 
any rate, shall have a staff for my old age to lean 
upon." 

H* *lC 3|C SjC 9|C 

The women now begin to talk, exchanging their 
anxieties and recollections. Ah ! living in Rou- 
baix, with butter at ten francs a kilogramme ! 
Many people had to give up meat. What would 
they have done but for the supplies of cereals, 
rice, and condensed milk sent by the Americans ? 
The children hadn't done so badly, as the mothers 
went without for their sake. 

A young woman of retiring and refined appear- 
ance remarked: "Moral sufferings were the 
hardest to bear. Otherwise we managed to get 
along. ..." 

A dark, energetic woman, married to a Swiss, 
tells how she tried to escape. She managed to 
leave the town with her little daughter, and they 
tramped along all day, hiding when necessary, 
and keeping to by-roads. She carried the little 
girl. In the evening, just before reaching a village 
where they meant to sleep, a German soldier 
levelled his rifle at them. She caught up her 
child, and was arrested, taken back to Roubaix, 
and thrown into prison. 

" Almost all the women have been to prison," 
said one of the women. " In some cases for buy- 
ing contraband potatoes at the frontier." 



52 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

Some of the women got letters secretly from 
their husbands — letters which came mysteriously, 
brought by somebody who disappeared without 
saying a word. Sometimes " they " held a search, 
when a neighbour had betrayed the happy 
recipients. If the letter was found, " they " 
gave the woman the choice of paying a fine or 
going to prison; and money was generally so 
scarce that more often than not prison was chosen. 
Perhaps one of these secret messengers was cap- 
tured. He was shot, and the letters on him gave 
away all the names of the guilty ones. Punish- 
ment followed promptly. 

Many a woman, on receiving one of these mys- 
terious letters, realized quite well that she ought 
to destroy it. But she could not make up her 
mind to destroy that letter, the last souvenir, 
maybe, of the loved one. So letters were concealed 
in all sorts of unlikely hiding-places. 

They told me of the thousand-and-one annoy- 
ances and continual punishments inflicted on. 
them. " At the very hottest season we were 
forbidden to be out of doors after five o'clock in 
the evening." They had to have passes to go 
from one part of the town to another. 

They showed me cardboard sous which now 
are substituted for all small coinage; they told 
me their stories with emotion, instancing cases, 
recalling what had happened to a friend. All 



ZURICH 53 



these parallel accounts bear one another out with 
wonderful exactness. 

Some wives had been informed by prisoners 
taken to Germany of their husbands' deaths; 
others had heard no news. Nothing at all was 
known of the quite young people who went away 
on September 9. This brought them to describe 
that horrible incident. The fair woman with 
the quiet manner speaks, while the others nod 
assent, break in, or recall overlooked details. In 
other carriages other women take up the same 
story. 

On September 9, 1914, when the Germans were 
approaching, the order was given that all auxiliary 
troops — young men of eighteen and nineteen — ■ 
who had not been mobilized on the first day of the 
war should clear out. The first detachment 
managed to get away, but the Germans spied the 
rest "and, taking them for francs-tireurs, opened 
fire on them with machine-guns and rounded them 
up. These defenceless, unarmed boys, scared by 
the bullets, made off and threw themselves into 
ditches. Some were able to strike the road and 
get back to Roubaix, where they were captured 
later on; many were taken prisoners, and many 
were wounded or killed. Many of them were not 
heard of again. Those who got away had stories 
to tell. ... Ah ! how closely these mothers 
listened ! When I hear this talk memories come 



54 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

back to me. How often our thoughts went out 
to the cities whose martyrdom we pictured ! It 
seems now as if the veil were suddenly rent, as 
we watch their sufferings. And we can do nothing 
to comfort them. . . . 

The country is dazzlingly white in the sunshine. 
Villages appear among the snow-covered fields. 
Bernese houses with large-tiled roofs give place 
to the houses of Zurich. Family groups stand 
at the windows and in the gardens, and children 
wave French flags at us. We hear the shouts of 
welcome. Everywhere along the roads and in 
the villages, at level-crossings and almost on the 
track itself, people wait to greet us. Whenever 
we stop, a crowd flocks into the station and shakes 
hands, looking with tearful eyes into the eyes of 
the repatriated French. When we start off again, 
I lean out of the window and watch the distant 
groups moving away slowly with shoulders bent. 
I can interpret their silence : they carry away with 
them the misfortunes of the poor creatures they 
have just had a sight of, the sorrow and anguish 
which exales from this long, ill-omened train. 
And as they go their ways through the village, 
these men and women feel vibrate within them 
all the ties which bind them to land and house, 
and, like the Zurich peasant woman, think, " These 
are. the poorest of all. . . ." 

***** 



ZURICH 55 



To-day I am haunted by these processions of 
war victims, and two things blend themselves 
insistently in my memory : pictures of two villages 
in the war zone — one destroyed, one invaded. 

There is a village right at the front near Rheims. 
Not a house in it is now standing. On both sides 
of the road one saw a long vista of ruins knocked 
all to pieces and crumbling continually under the 
impact of new shells. One could descry through 
gaping holes in the walls gardens littered with 
small stones and trying to bloom — a spared branch 
of lilac, cherry boughs. 

One knows the sight so well : we have read about 
it in the papers, and we have heard the refugees 
speak of it a hundred times — " Everything has 
been smashed up at our place." As we walked 
among these remains of farms, it seemed impos- 
sible to believe what one saw, and I, too, felt 
stunned as by an unforeseen catastrophe. 

This, then, is the sight that they had before 
them, and contemplated with a sad, fixed gaze, 
which we vainly tried to distract. How many 
times have they said to me: " Anyone who hasn't 
seen it cannot imagine what it is." 

Yet, in spite of all this, they were unable to 
make up their minds to leave the ruins ! Here 
are the two last inhabitants, who left but a fort- 
night ago — under compulsion. These gutted 
houses were still " home " for them; they were 



56 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

so accustomed to the growling of the guns, the 
periodic roar, the long-drawn-out whistling of 
the shells which made us shudder, that they no 
longer heeded them. 

Slowly we approached the strange form silhou- 
etted against the sky — the remains of the church. 
Just a bit of the tower has escaped: just a bit of 
the roof still stands, goodness knows how ; a frag- 
ment of the doorway still holds up its mosaic 
tympanum: there is a Christ among His sheep, 
and below the words " I am the bread of life." 
The statue of a martyr fallen at the foot of the 
steps raises its head and seems to protest by 
gesture and look. 

The invaded village seemed to us to be even 
more pitiful still than the one that had been 
wrecked. From our observation-post we could 
see it among the fields, not far from us, silent and 
apparently deserted under the young foliage. But 
it is still inhabited, though no smoke rises from its 
roofs and no peasant stoops over the land close 
by. Around it stretches the absolutely empty 
green, sun-kissed plain, seamed from end to end 
by the hard lines of the trenches, a huge white 
network which covers the whole expanse : French 
trenches, German trenches, run on and on in an 
apparently meaningless fashion, climb the folds 
of the ground, and are lost to sight in the distant 



ZURICH 57 



hills. The only objects that arrest the eyes are 
the copses of barbed wire. What an empty, deadly 
plain is this, now so strangely inhabited by in- 
visible inhabitants ! No human being who values 
his life must show himself for a moment. How 
can one realize that the Germans are in their 
burrows quite close, only three hundred and fifty 
yards away ? How can one imagine that from 
those blue, soft distances and harmoniously 
coloured hills death may descend on us every time 
we hear the guns ? Hostile eyes are all round us ; 
nothing escapes them. An imprudent movement, 
a head raised thoughtlessly above the screen, and 
all is over. 

It is this which besets and stabs us — this empty 
countryside stretched round these farms, the dim 
outlines of the hills, death moving everywhere 
under this hot springtide sun — death in its loneli- 
ness, mistress of all, holding all this stretch on 
which man has enthroned it, who alone walks in 
these wonderful fields and visits the invaded 
village. 

My eyes keep turning back to it, so near and 
yet more inaccessible than a village in another 
world. The commander's field-glasses enable 
me to examine it at close quarters. It seems as 
if I could touch these farms, knock on their doors, 
go inside and look for their mysterious occupants, 



58 THE VICTIMS 1 RETURN 

They are there, no doubt, bent, obedient., under- 
going a thousand restraints, harassed in a thou- 
sand ways. They are at home, yet not at home. 
They are no longer masters of their business, their 
time, their cattle, scarcely even of their lives — 
which are theirs only if they do not disobey orders. 
They live lives of terror, grief, and torture. Their 
nights are hag-ridden. They just wait. And 
when they see the lilac burst into flower again 
their one thought is: " For the second time, this, 
since we were invaded." 

They know nothing. Do they know, in this 
springtime of 1916, that henceforward they have 
something to hope for ? Scanty news will at last 
be able to cross the iron circle, and they will soon 
learn whether their sons are dead. 

While I watched this village heaped in ruins 
among the fields, hedged about and dismal, the 
words of the refugees returned and hovered around 
me, and became a terrible reality in the presence 
of actual suffering. Their wailing seemed to rise 
from the captured farms and reach us across the 
spaces which it filled with its despair. 

Lille, Roubaix, Valenciennes, and many others ! 
Dumb cities, villages round which silence has 
reigned for almost two years: your desolate look 
will haunt me henceforward. You have spoken 



ZURICH 59 



to me with the voice of these refugees who were 
driven from you into exile. They have made us 
feel your suffering. As we tend them and drink 
in their words, our hearts go out to you. 

We know, too, that hope upholds you, and that 
you live with your eyes upon the future. 



THE PROCESSION OF VICTIMS AT 
GENEVA. 

Almost every day for week after week from the 
end of the autumn of 1914 the station at Geneva 
saw trains come in filled with these unhappy 
travellers. The interned civilians crowded to 
the windows of the carriages, which were kept 
locked, and stared at the committee-men drawn 
up on the platform. But not one of them went 
through the almost automatic action of leaning 
out and opening the door. They were accustomed 
to discipline. 

At last we made them alight, which they did 
with leisurely haste. Their hands were encum- 
bered with all kinds of incongruous baggage — 
badly tied up cardboard boxes, ^ bloated string- 
bags, parcels sewn up in canvas, baskets, and 
overworked" valises. Some women carried their 
babies and led the older children by the hand. 

In a twinkling the platform was invaded by 
a silent crowd with wretched, sad faces : women, 
more women, children, young people, old people, 
all weary and clad in worn-out, dirty clothes. 

They are the replica of the convoy which went 
through yesterday, and just like those which will 

60 



GENEVA 61 



come to-morrow. All have the same obedient, 
resigned look of folk accustomed to long endur- 
ance. They approach the exit. Those behind 
begin to run. They fill the staircase and subway. 
Presently they are arrayed in column between 
the stewards, civilian police, auxiliary relief 
workers, and Samaritans. Then off they go to 
the welcome awaiting them at the school at 
Paquis or in the Rue de Berne. A sad procession 
is this. The strong daylight reveals their blotched 
complexions, their swollen faces, the disorders of 
their dress. Some are so footsore in their broken 
shoes that they must be helped to walk. Old 
people, too weary to stand, are supported. Women 
weep silently: their neighbours take their arms. 
Everybody helps everyone else, and this gives an 
impression of brotherliness which one does not 
see in light-hearted crowds. 

Even the folk over there, who are better clad 
than the rest, and whose jewels speak of affluence, 
have the same subdued look. One might describe 
this as a great flock of human sheep going quietly 
to its fate. 

Least unfortunate are those who were captured 
during a summer excursion, and who finished their 
holiday in some convent or abandoned factory 
in the French province, or. in a concentration 
camp in Western Germany. Listen to this old 
Fr ench Alsatian woman : 



62 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

" I had worked hard for twenty-five years, and 
wanted to take my daughters to my old village 
in Alsace. We started on July 24. . . ." 

All the still young women have been separated 
from their husbands, detained in enemy country 
— for how long ? With what a gesture they enfold 
their children in their skirts, as they shed sad 
tears, soon checked. 

The sight of them takes one suddenly into the 
awful situations created by the war. It bares 
the disorder of lives which in a day were robbed 
of common rights, snatched from the world, 
separated from those dear to them. 

Frenchwomen married to Germans, German 
women married to Frenchmen, cast off by their 
own people, and driven from their native land, 
unfortunates whose brothers fight on one side 
and the husband, maybe the son, on the other — 
their hearts are torn by a double agony, their 
dumb despair is as a mask on their faces. 

" It wasn't possible to get a divorce, was it ? 
Then, you know, you get to love one another all 
the more after suffering so much together." 

Some of these lonely women tell us: "I am 
going to Germany, where I don't know a single 
soul, and I cannot speak German. What sort 
of a reception shall I get yonder ?" 

All their past is a blank, and they dare not 
think of the future. 



GENEVA 63 



One day there came a convoy of Hungarians 
and Dalmatian Italians. All the young women 
had babies in arms. Many of them were very 
pretty, with their bright eyes, white teeth, and 
dark complexions. They wore gaily-coloured 
kerchiefs on their black, plaited hair. On this 
dull day of the late autumn they seemed to bring 
with them a touch of Eastern splendour into the 
room. Despite their obvious wretchedness, these 
women did not appear crushed or frightened. No 
doubt, travelling had no surprises for them, and 
they were quite ignorant of the complexities of 
civilized life. The sight of them made us think 
of the gipsy tribes which roam on the open plains 
bordering the Black Sea. 

I remember one of them, a bareheaded woman 
with wrinkled face, golden skin, and slender 
hands, who spoke in unintelligible German — an 
unmistakable gipsy. She had sons who played 
in an orchestra and had been detained " down 
yonder." 

" She had spent her whole life travelling," 
said an old man who had come up to act as 
interpreter. The old nomad could no longer 
endure her shoes, which galled her. No doubt 
she had been accustomed to do all her travelling 
barefoot. She was given some cloth sandals, 
into which she joyfully inserted her tiny feet. 
She expressed her thanks by a curtsey, so graceful, 



64 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

smiling, and dignified that one of us exclaimed 
in admiration, " She has the manner of a queen !" 

A queen ! — the ruler of more than a narrow 
kingdom, owner of all space, of all the world's 
beauty, was this old gipsy who had travelled " all 
her life," preferring (to mere comfort) the bound- 
less liberty of one who owns nothing. 

I still seem to see another wanderer, a grey- 
haired shepherd in his long coat and sabots, 
who recalled the patriarchal life in tents, with 
its bivouac fires and long, lonely tramps across 
country behind a flock of leisurely, jostling sheep. 
He spent the whole afternoon in the courtyard 
with his dog, " so that he should not disturb 
people." He was on his way back to his own 
country in Alsace, for " there is always work for 
shepherds." He had a married daughter in 
Switzerland, but could not remember her address 
or the name of the town in which she lived. He 
had lost sight of her, and now his dog was his all. 
How grateful he was because they fed the animal ! 
A lady of the Committee promised to look after 
it while he went and got some supper with the 
convoy in the public kitchens. On returning, 
he exclaimed, " It was like a wedding-feast !" 
The lady presented him with a bowl to give his 
dog drink from during the journey, and he 
thanked her, adding, " That will do for the two 
of us." 



GENEVA 65 



When he said good-bye he promised the lady 
who had looked after his one and only friend, 
" When I get yonder I'll write you a letter, but I 
should like you to send me a reply." She pro- 
mised him that she would do so. 

Most pitiful of all were the strings of old men, 
who in a way seem even more destitute and for- 
saken than the women. Here is an old workman 
who has toiled all his life in France. He is asked, 
" Why didn't you get yourself naturalized V 
and answers, " I couldn't; no, I couldn't. And 
I was earning four and a half francs a day." 

This rag picker, a short, thick-set man who 
speaks French perfectly, has lived in France for 
sixty years, and is sixty-seven years old. He 
has been operated on twice for cataract, but sees 
none the better for it. " It is all right during the 
day," says he, " but when it gets a bit dark I 
don't know where I am." We gave him an over- 
coat — a thing he probably had never possessed 
before — and he protested that he was " clothed 
like a prince." 

Another man, an old shepherd, all doubled up 
with rheumatism, dragged himself along leaning 
on his stick. He spoke to us of his flock — three 
hundred and eighty sheep — and his three dogs. 
Forty of the sheep belonged to him: they repre- 
sented all the savings of his long life. When the 

5 



66 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

Germans came in search of him he had to leave 
them behind, as there was no time to sell them, 
and so lost his all. He kept one dog, but had to 
kill it, and now owned nothing. Then he caught 
the rheumatism in the shed where he had to lie 
on straw. 

" I shall not be able to mind sheep any longer," 
he said, " and shall have to be helped." 

Victims of the war ! It is not only the splendid, 
strong soldiers who lay down their lives, or who 
come back, disabled, to a darkened existence. 
They at least get some glory, and enjoy the 
feeling of having fulfilled a primary duty; for 
them there are decorations, pensions — above all, 
the respect and admiration of their neighbours, 
of the whole country. 

But who shall comfort these humble victims — - 
all those who unknowingly, and often without 
realizing it, are engulfed in disaster, and who 
also pay the penalty with their health, with the 
loss of the hard-won competence, with their 
happiness, maybe with life itself ? They, too, 
have done their duty all their life through. And 
the misfortunes that have swooped down on them 
are the harder to bear in that they seem inex- 
plicable and profit their country not at all. 

These victims are whole populations over whom 
the invasion swept, who have passed through 
weeks and months of terror, for whom life' will 



GENEVA 67 



never again be as it was before. When one tries 
to sum up such suffering one feels the grip of agony 
and horror, and it seems as if one would never 
dare again to think of the future. 

3jC JJ5 *l* *|* *|C 

Weeks passed by. We saw people come in 
who had been rounded up in Germany or cap- 
tured at the time of the invasion, dwellers in 
districts near the frontier — Longwy, Audun-le- 
Roman, Blamont, Cirey, Badonviller, Dompierre- 
au-Bois, and many other villages with pretty 
French names which now have an ominous ring. 

These men and women alighted from the car- 
riages encumbered with miscellaneous baggage, 
poor articles snatched up hastily in the confusion 
of a hurried departure, rammed into baskets, 
wrapped up in cloths, packed into dirty old haver- 
sacks which had doubtless seen war service, or 
tied up in potato-bags. Their appearance gives 
one a striking impression of what the exodus must 
have been, the exodus of a whole people terrified 
by fire and bursting shells, as they fled in fear of 
the enemy, carrying off their little ones, and for- 
getting in the last panic-stricken moments to 
take absolutely necessary things with them. 
When they collected on the station platform in 
an unhappy mob, all said just the same thing — 
" We have nothing else; just that." 

Before leading them off their baggage had to 



68 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

be disposed of, and this was not always an easy 
matter. Old women kept going back to their 
bundles, unwilling to believe that they would 
get them again, later on, at Annemasse; for amid 
the general shipwreck these poor relics were their 
sole remaining property, and they trembled at the 
mere thought of losing them. 

" Let me have your basket ; they are going to 
drive you in a motor-car," said a steward to a 
sick old woman whom he was helping to walk. 

" No ! no ! I can't give it up. I want to keep 
it with me, or it will get stolen." With a frantic 
gesture she hugged her basket — now her only 
possession — which contained a small coffee-pot 
and a pot of jam ! 

The clocks are striking seven o'clock in the 
morning. It is still dark ; the wintry dawn breaks 
slowly. A train has just come in. Evacuated 
French-people fill the great baggage-hall: the 
men seated in rows on benches, the women amid 
groups of children. They look miserable, with 
their dejected attitudes and lead-coloured com- 
plexions. An expression of terrified sadness seems 
frozen on their faces. They are people from the 
devastated departments of the Meuse and the 
Marne who were taken away to Germany, and 
are now being repatriated, to the number of about 
three hundred. 



GENEVA 69 



In the grey morning light and through heavy 
rain they are led to the restaurant. The few 
passers-by stop on the kerb and regard them with 
dismay. The people of the neighbourhood, accus- 
tomed as they now are to see these pitiful convoys 
pass through, have never yet been in the presence 
of such distress. 

A working man takes off his cape, throws it 
round the shoulders of an old fellow, and makes 
off quickly. 

After coffee had been served, the procession 
re-formed and continued its journey to the school 
in the Rue de Berne. The stewards helped to 
carry the children, most of whom had coughs. 
One small girl, enfeebled by bronchitis and fever, 
fell down in the mud. Some women wore list 
slippers sopping with water; the old ones moved 
with difficulty, all doubled up. Old men dragged 
themselves along, aided by their sticks. Many 
were wrapped up in brand-new shawls and scarves, 
given them at Schaffhausen, contrasting strongly 
with the general poverty of their clothes. 

It was now daylight. The procession moved 
very slowly over the dripping cobblestones. It 
brought tears to the eyes to turn and watch the 
sad, pale, weary faces of this crowd of poor people 
plodding along through the. rain. They seemed 
as it were, to regard misfortune, long wanderings, 
and endless fatigue as a natural state of things. 



70 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

They were herded from one place to another 
without knowing whither they were being taken. 
They said: " What is to become of us when we 
get to France ?" There is no longer any place 
that they wish to go to, where they are expected 
and will feel at home. Their villages — Saint- 
R£my, Dommartin, Dompierre-au-Bois, Mouzay, 
and others — have been bombarded and burnt. 
Such houses as remain standing have been pillaged 
from top to bottom. " If only we can find work !" 
say some of them. That is the only wish that we 
ever heard them put into words. 

Meanwhile the Samaritans' motor-car had taken 
the most helpless to the infirmary — some para- 
lyzed old men, a refugee who had become insane, 
and a few poor old women whose legs would not 
carry them. All the beds are filled, and in the 
passage five weakly women sit on a bench in a 
row, awaiting their dinner. 

Their ideas are all confused ; they do not know 
where they are; they no longer have any news 
of their scattered children. They cannot say 
what countries they have been in— this, that, the 
other — what does it matter ? Yet they can 
recall, even in the minutest details, one terrible 
fact : the burning of their houses under their very 
eyes and the seizing of their livestock. " I had 
worked hard for fifty-sixty years, and then— 
this." 



GENEVA 71 



Can one realize what such a disaster means to 
peasants whose whole life and effort have centred 
in their farms, fields, and cattle ? To judge by 
their rigid, mask-like features, which can no 
longer show astonishment, they are buried in 
the ruin of their lives. 

However, in the warm hall upstairs these 
shipwrecked folk appear to cheer up a little, and 
begin to talk. 

When, in August, 19 14, the inhabitants of the 
Meuse fled towards central France to escape the 
invasion, these people refused to move, preferring 
to stay in their villages with their cattle. " Ah ! 
if we had only known, for we lost everything 
just the same," they say, and go on to describe 
the systematic devastation of their 'farms and 
the pillage of their plate, linen, and furniture. 

" Our fine furniture," says an old woman, and 
gives a list : sideboards, cupboards, coppers, 
presses, wrecked by axes. Floors were torn up, 
even the doors smashed, and all their little belong- 
ings ruined, broken to pieces, and flung on to the 
dung-heap. 

A woman said: " It broke my heart." 

" What about your cattle ?" 

" They took them away, and never gave us a 
receipt. We have nothing left at home, not even 
a rabbit." 

Most of them have undergone the terrible trials 



72 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

of bombardment. The Germans made them take 
refuge in the church, though, as a woman said, 
" We should have been better sheltered in our 
barns, because of the hay there." 

" When we heard the shells coming," said 
another, " we went like this "• — she seized her 
child and bent over it — " so that if we were killed 
the little one should not be hurt." Nothing could 
be more touching than the way in which she did 
it : it showed frequent practice. 

They were herded in the church for days, 
crowded together, sleeping as best they could on 
flagstones covered with a little straw, anxious to 
go home and fetch a blanket. The story of Dom- 
pierre-au-Bois is especially tragic. The Germans 
who first occupied the place were not destructive, 
and paid for what they took. Then the French 
Dragoons drove them out. An old peasant is 
telling the story: " W T e were very pleased at 
this, and offered them flowers. But the Germans 
returned in swarms, just like ants. . They put the 
whole lot of us in the church, and while we were 
there pillaged all our houses one after the other. 
They threatened to shoot us, and for two days 
we believed that they were coming to fetch us out 
to execution every time the door opened. Some 
of the women fainted through fright. ..." 

The Germans had planted batteries and were 
firing on the Fort of Troyon. The fort replied, and 



GENEVA 73 



French shells fell on to the unlucky village. The 
description reminded me of the regret expressed 
by a French soldier:* "How could we give free- 
dom without destruction ; how win back more than 
pitiful ruins and the poor survivors whose bitter 
anguish we realized even as we swept forward in 
pursuit ? 

" It is at times like these that one cannot but 
feel the unbearable horror of temporary loss of 
land and livelihood. One can understand the 
full meaning of ' occupation ' only where and 
when it bursts over the heads of its victims. 

" There we were, making for the well-known, 
familiar scene. The others, the occupiers, re- 
mained crouching in our houses, under the shadow 
of our church towers, between which they dig 
their burrows. We had to fire on them — so we 
fired." 

A young peasant girl interrupted the old 
man : "Of course our soldiers could not stop 
firing for the sake of a few civilians. ... It 
had to be." 

" A shell burst in the church. Then it seemed 
as if one could not see properly any longer. 
Everybody rushed out, and then came back 
again, when we found that the rest were not 
following. We saw the dead and wounded — 
twenty-two dead and seventeen wounded." 

* Maurice Gandolphe, La Marche d la victoire. 



74 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

It was a terrible scene: families wiped out; 
a woman lying dead with her six-weeks-old baby 
in her arms; another killed while suckling her 
child, which was found alive in her skirts; a 
woman about to give birth to a child, with her 
foot blown off; her husband, father, and mother 
lying lifeless around her. They took her away 
to the schoolroom, where she kept screaming for 
several days lying on the straw. She was then 
removed to Mars-la-Tour, and was at last able to 
die, after giving birth to a dead child. 

The most severely wounded were left in the 
church among the dead bodies till the following 
day. From the uninjured altar the statue of the 
Virgin looked down on this hecatomb of women, 
children, and old men. 

" My poor wife kept asking for water," said an 
old man, " but I was not allowed to take her any, 
and she died thirty-six hours later." 

A terrible dialogue begins between the men and 
women sitting on the benches. 

" I had my twenty-years-old daughter killed." 

" And /, my mother and my three sisters." 

" And I, my husband." 

" The very pale little girl, you see over yonder 
is an orphan whom her cousin had adopted. Her 
cousin was cut in two." 

" Ah ! when we get together we talk of it, and 
it seems as if it were all still happening." 



GENEVA 75 



They speak of their hurried departure a few 
days later, and of long tramps along the roads. 
They had to carry their children when too tired 
to walk. The wounded went away in carts, 
several dying before reaching Germany. At Metz 
a crowd collected to watch them go past, and they 
saw some of the German ladies weep. They went 
first to one place, then to another. They were 
well treated at the barracks, where they spent the 
last weeks, for the soldiers were reservists with 
wives and children of their own. 

It seems like a dream to listen to these refugees, 
to whom the worst of misfortunes will hence- 
forward appear quite ordinary happenings. In 
the future nothing will be able to cause them 
surprise or emotion. There is a terrible signifi- 
cance in the words, " We have shed all our 
tears." 

At ten o'clock the convoy was taken to the 
tramway which would transport it to Annemasse. 
A pitying crowd looked on. Some women, un- 
asked, had brought parcels of clothing to the 
Rue de Berne, and they cried as they distributed 
them. Others, standing on the pavement, waited 
till the French people passed and gave them things. 
One of them, on hearing an old peasant woman 
lament an umbrella left "over yonder," cried: 
" Wait a minute, madam," and soon came back 
all out of breath, and handed an umbrella to the 



76 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

poor amazed old woman, apologizing for the fact 
that " it was not quite new." 

Then another came running up with a fine 
warm cloak, which she laid on her shoulders. 

We watched the vehicles disappear in the 
distance. We asked ourselves: "Where are 
these people going to ? Who will welcome them 
and help them to regain a little happiness in 
spite of their terrible memories and regrets for 
their ruined farms ?" 

It often happened that the convoy arrived by 
the 9 p.m. train. The procession was formed 
quickly, headed by old and helpless men and 
young boys. Then came the women, many of 
whom had babies in their arms and little ones 
clinging to their skirts. 

We led them through the night down dark 
streets to the restaurant, passing between two 
walls of people who had in some manner got 
news of our coming, and were waiting for the 
French unfortunates in respectful, pitying silence. 
Those of us who carried the children were aware 
of a shuddering pity and of moving figures which 
bent over the small sleepers. Outstretched hands 
offered chocolate, dainties, clothes. A wornan 
took off her woollen scarf and wrapped it round 
a little girl as she went by. 

The refugees were accommodated in two large 



GENEVA 77 



rooms of the temperance hotel at Montbrillant, 
where they were given a hot meal. There were 
flowers on the tables. Ladies took possession 
of the little ones so that their mothers might get 
some food. Milk was served out for the babies 
and sucking-bottles prepared for the night. Com- 
mittee-men helped the servants by carrying 
empty plates. The restaurant proprietor, notic- 
ing that a child had scarcely anything on under 
its dress, exclaimed: " I will go upstairs to see 
whether my wife hasn't something she can give 
her." 

Under cover of the passing to and fro of the 
waiters conversation begins, at first in a low 
voice, then in louder tones. Things are pro- 
gressing nicely. Tired faces relax; some take 
on a look of content, others remain sad and 
anxious. Many of the women have their hus- 
band and son at the war, and get no news of them. 
One woman in deep mourning tells us how her 
husband was wounded by a bullet, and how she 
was carried away, leaving him in his agony. 
Some ask in a distracted manner whether they 
will be allowed to return home, to districts near 
the firing-line. Surely their own houses will not 
be forbidden them ? 

All are deeply touched by the general display 
of sympathy, which they felt immediately after 
reaching the Swiss frontier. They expected that 



78 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

they would have to sleep in the stations, but were 
welcomed and well looked after at Schaffhausen 
and all along the route — at Zurich, Berne, and 
Lausanne. They were given clothes, fruit, and 
other delicacies. At Berne they caught sight of 
one of our officers, and raised a shout of " Long 
live Switzerland !" 

Our eyes fill with tears as we listen to them, 
for with the terrible recollections of their suffer- 
ings is linked the name of our country, a name 
that sounds sweetly in their ears. 

In the school buildings, where beds have been 
made up and tables decorated with flowers, the 
committee-men proceed with the work of ad- 
ministration. We take the women and children 
into the bathroom, with its hot water, tubs and 
basins arranged on benches. The toilet of the 
youngest now begins. Women say to us: " Just 
fancy, we have been travelling now for three 
months, now to one village, now to another ! 
Yesterday, at Schaffhausen, for the first time, we 
had a bed to sleep in and were able to take our 
clothes off." 

The room is soon transformed into a nursery. 
Babies lying on the beds kick their legs while 
being rubbed down. Some of them begin to cry; 
it is late, and they are sleepy. Others are still 
smiling. All these mites, who have come from far 
away and gone through so much, are calm and 



GENEVA 79 



protected by their wonderful ignorance of things ; 
these little ones lack nothing, so long as they 
have their mothers' arms around them. 

A small boy has undressed himself without 
help while his mother is busy with the younger 
children, and stands there naked and smiling, 
looking at us. While we bend together over the 
beds and help the mothers to clothe their little 
ones, they confide to us their troubles and diffi- 
culties. One young woman sobs as she swaddles 
her latest-born, for she has just been told that 
she will probably not be able to return to her 
town, which is in the danger zone. She says: 
" I don't know where to go to now, for I don't 
know a single soul." 

A little girl begins to prattle, for she, too, must 
have her say. It is: "The Germans took my 
doll." Her father went off to the war, but he 
might just as well have stayed with them, as the 
war came to their village. 

I notice a fine, plump, rosy-cheeked infant who 
smiles at his mother while she performs his toilet. 
" What a fine baby, madam ! What is his age ?" 
She straightens herself, and I see that she is quite 
young. Proudly she replies: "Four months. I 
am suckling it, and goodness only knows what 
horrible things I have eaten to keep my milk. 
The others were revolted, but I took no notice. 
I thought only of my baby, and ate whatever came 



8o THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

along. There, now, see how heavy he is." She 
tests his weight proudly, and says again: " Yes, 
I have eaten some queer things." 

They bring in a child of six years old who has 
just been attended to in the infirmary. She 
carries her arm in a sling. " Did the Germans 
hurt your poor little hand ?" She raises a sweet 
face, very peaceful and pale, and answers in a 
weak voice : " No, ma'am; we were in the church." 
Then the women in low tones tell me the story 
of this lonely little girl, whom one of them charit- 
ably took away with her. Her mother, who lives 
in Paris, sent her and a three-years-old sister 
to spend the summer with her grandparents 
at Dompierre-aux-Bois. Dompierre-aux-Bois ! 
Yes, we know that name, for it will always be 
associated with tragedy. It brings to mind other 
stories told us by weeping women — of the church 
gutted by shells, of death falling like a thunder- 
bolt on the crowded refugees. 

The little girl's grandparents, uncle, aunt, and 
sister, were all killed, and now they are taking 
her back to Paris, and her mother as yet knows 
nothing. 

The picture evoked by this story is almost 
unbearable in this room filled with the chirruping 
of the babies: the corpse of the three-years-old 
child which they carried away, and the older 
sister escaped by a miracle and following blindly. 



GENEVA 81 



14 The wounded will never get well," adds an old 
woman of eighty-two, whose hand has been a long 
time healing and keeps on discharging. 

The babies are in bed, clean and quiet, and 
falling asleep. The mothers surround the German- 
Swiss girl who came with them from Schaffhausen. 
She is about to leave them, and all want to say 
good-bye and shake her hands and thank her. 
" Oh, miss ! I should dearly like to embrace you;" 
and these strangers of yesterday exchange kisses. 

Meanwhile the old woman . continues : "The 
most terrible thing of all was not the burning of 
our houses, but our being led away as if we were 
criminals by German soldiers — soldiers with fixed 
bayonets !" 

What a curiously rustic way of looking at things ! 
The forced departure and military escort appeared 
to her a disgraceful ending to a long life of honest 
work. That she could not forgive. 

The surprising feature of all these stories of 
bombardment and incendiarism is the calm 
manner in which they are told. No complaints 
are heard: the loss of property seems to be a 
matter of course — " What can you expect ? — it's 
war." While middle-class folk, owners of burnt 
factories, wax indignant and abusive and kick 
against their fate, these poor people, being accus- 

6 



82 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

tomed to trouble, speak quite quietly about their 
losses, without animosity. They have no idea 
where they are off to, " though, of course, we 
shall be sent somewhere where we shall be un- 
disturbed." They take everything for granted. 
" We couldn't prevent things of this kind happen- 
ing, could we ?" 

Their misfortune clothes them in a kind of 
dignity; they have been through so much. In 
their opinion others are still more unfortunate. 
"Look at that woman there," they say: "her 
husband is dead, her house burnt, and she has 
no news of her son. And that one over there has 
lost her child." What sweetness is shown by 
these people, who, though broken-hearted them- 
selves, can still feel compassion for others. 

One day, by an unlucky chance which every 
effort had been made to prevent, a procession of 
French old men and boys met a convoy of interned 
Germans in the street, to the great distress of the 
committee-men. The upshot was quite unex- 
pected. An old Frenchman raised his hat to 
them with the words: " They are poor devils, just 
like us !" That was all. 

***** 

One evening they brought an old French 
peasant woman into the infirmary. It so hap- 
pened that, owing to quite unusual circumstances, 
all the other beds were occupied by German 



GENEVA 83 



women. The old lady, sitting in her chair in 
the quiet and half-darkened room, began to 
speak. She came from a village near Saint 
Mihiel which was occupied by the Germans and 
bombarded, being right in the centre of the battle 
area. The inhabitants were taken away to Ger- 
many, travelling from one place to another — to 
Sarrebourg, and finally to Saverne, where they 
were imprisoned. Certainly, they were told that 
they were not like the other prisoners, but there 
was no other place for them. The Sisters were 
very kind to them, and gave them what they 
had, so it was no fault of theirs that they were 
badly fed. Then, ladies of Saverne — Alsatians, 
who sympathized with the French — came to visit 
them, bringing clothes, linen for the most destitute, 
food, sausages, etc. 

She stops, and her pale, wrinkled face smiles 
at the recollection. Doubtless she cannot read — 
she is one of those old peasants whom one still 
runs across in out-of-the-way country places 
whose whole life slips quietly away between 
the narrow boundaries of their farm walls. At 
times she speaks with animation; at times she 
falls silent and stares straight before her, as if she 
saw quite close to her things that had just hap- 
pened. She says : 

" Nowadays I haven't even a chair of my own, 
not a fork — nothing !" 



84 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

I ask her: " Was your village burnt ?" 

She nods assent. " Yes; many houses were 
burnt." 

" But not yours ?" 

" Yes," she answers, and is silent for a moment, 
her head bent forward. She has two sons in 
the army, and two daughters who escaped with 
her, but have been lost sight of. The village 
was bombarded for twelve days on end, and all 
the villagers hid themselves in their cellars. 
When a cellar fell in, they went into another. She 
stayed till the very last moment, on account of 
her beasts, but finally had to let them all loose 
because the stable caught fire. " Anyone who 
has not actually seen the thing with his own eyes 
cannot imagine what it is." She adds: "But 
what can you expect ? — it is war." 

But these simple words, interrupted by spells 
of silence, evoked terrible pictures which 
gradually filled the room, in which the German 
women listened silently. One girl, lying on the 
next bed, raised herself up that' she might not 
lose a word. The old woman continues : 

" I can't complain of the German soldiers. 
They naturally asked us for things; they had to 
eat, hadn't they ? But it wasn't their fault that 
they were there. They had to fight for their 
country, as ours fight for ours, and I warrant they 
would have been glad enough to stay at home. 



GENEVA 85 



When food ran out they gave us part of their stew. 
I used to wash their things for them. When the 
shells came along, they squeezed themselves with 
us into the cellars, and we stayed there all 
together." 

She forgets all about the soup, which is getting 
cold on her knees, and goes on : 

" The day on which we had to clear out I was 
making up the pigs' food. A German officer 
wrote something on the door. Then the Germans 
started firing with their cannon over our heads 
at the French at the bottom of the hill beyond the 
vineyard. Oh ! they didn't bother about looking 
for grapes !" She stops a moment to smile at 
her tragic little joke. 

" The French on their side fired low at the 
village, and it was their shells that set our houses 
on fire. When I saw wounded Germans lying on 
the ground I began to shed tears for them as 
for our own men. We were told that we should 
do well to get away ; so we left everything behind 
— provisions, grapes, cattle. We had to clear out 
without taking anything with us. The houses 
were burning — they made a fine bonfire ! Yes ! 
it's a terrible war," she adds. 

I listened as in a troubled dream to this painful 
picture of invasion and fighting drawn in the midst 
of these German women, who gradually ceased to 
be hostile and allowed themselves to be won over 



86 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

by the pity which I could read in their faces ; and 
this pity turned into admiration of this ignorant, 
blunt, simple old body who never complained 
and still managed to smile. The young German 
girl took up the story in turn. She had not been 
interned. She was nurse to an American lady, 
and had crossed France with her mistress and 
seen some wounded men. " And those wounded 
Frenchmen were so bright !" Suddenly she 
turned to the Lorraine countrywoman and said: 
" You are quite right, quite right, to smile. One 
must keep up one's courage at all costs." 

It seemed to me that the poor old woman, 
though robbed of all she possessed, had won a 
victory by gaining over her enemies and compelling 
their admiration. 

***** 

When the repatriated children-pass by, clinging 
to their mothers — the youngest placid and 
smiling, the older ones in some cases still pale and 
sad-eyed, and refusing to be cheered up — I always 
think of a little Lorraine girl whom I knew in a 
village of Haute-Savoie to which her parents had 
been evacuated: a little girl of six who glanced 
round her in a frightened way and " was never 
seen to smile." 

Her mother said that she had been very strong 
and rosy-cheeked, but had suffered much, and 
children find it most difficult to bear up. This 



GENEVA 87 



woman had the depressed manner of people who 
have been through endless trouble. She called 
her little daughter, who sat in a corner with her 
hands hanging down, to her side. " Now go and 
play with the others," she said. The country- 
women, guessing her anxiety, kept saying: " She 
is so young ! She will forget. Just look how 
these others have picked up already !" But the 
mother shook her head. " Children are not all 
alike, are they ?" 

She was a little fair-haired girl whose grey eyes 
were always fixed on the distance. But in former 
days, when she was herself, the day seemed all 
too short. She would blush with pleasure when 
the mistress kissed her at the end of class. She 
was prepared to believe that everyone was kind 
when a neighbour brought her from Luneville 
market some cakes which she shared with her 
friends. Of an evening she would play on the 
village green while her elders walked about arm- 
in-arm. Before going to sleep she said her prayers, 
convinced that the good God loved her well. 

Then the terrible thing happened — rifle-shots 
fired at men; the flight to the cellars where they 
huddled together; her father in tears; and then 
hunger — she dared not say how hungry she was ! 
An old farm-hand had said: " This can't go on 
much longer; we must have food for the children." 
Then came the night, and he brought in three 



THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



loaves without being detected. The man was 
never seen again. Of what happened after that 
she knew nothing. Scenes became all mixed up; 
terrified faces flitted past her. It was said that 
the Mayor had gone mad. . . . Then the French 
troops entered, and they were able to eat and 
sleep. 

But one morning her mother seized her by the 
hand with the words, " Quick ! we must be off ! " 
The whole village was in flight. Some took sacks 
and wheelbarrows with them, but soon dropped 
them, to be able to run faster. What horrified 
her most was the lame old woman whom they had 
to leave on the roadside, and who kept calling 
after them in a voice of despair. 

At the top of the hill they looked back. All 
the village was ablaze. She tried to make out 
their farm among the flames, but her mother 
dragged her away. They trudged along all day 
without rest or food, and reached another village. 
The next day a battle raged all round them. 
Hidden in a cellar, they could hear the shells 
bursting and the shrieks and shouts of men. 
The little girl thought that the end of the world 
had come. Even God had forgotten them. 

A long time went by . . . that was all she 
knew, for the day was just the same as the night. 
They heard wounded men calling softly, " Com- 
rades, mercy ! mercy, comrades !" but nobody 



GENEVA 89 



dared go to them. They still had to escape. 
Some French soldiers, covered with blood, dragged 
themselves into the street and asked for water, 
and the girl was astounded to see her mother turn 
from them and hurry along. When they got 
outside the village they had to tread on body 
after body — Frenchmen, Germans, lying heaped 
together. And horses, too, with their bellies 
ripped open. And the blood ! . . . Her mother 
kept dragging her along, saying, " Don't look !" 
Then the stench, the mere thought of which makes 
one turn from one's food ! 

They walked on and on. Her feet became so 
sore that she did not know how she managed 
to keep on her legs. A town was seen in the 
distance, on the edge of the plain; they must 
reach it. Her father and mother gave her their 
hands ; but how slowly that town approached ! 
At last they were crowded into a waggon, and 
they went no one knew whither. 

To-day they were well off . . . this quiet 
village was just like their own. People spoke 
softly to her, but it seemed to her that things 
would never be the same as " before." Her 
mother said with a groan: "To think that one 
has lost everything and that one is among 
foreigners!" 

The little girl was suffering from a more deeply 
hidden trouble than mere sorrow for their de- 



go THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

stroyed farm. She could not put it into words, 
but when she sat with her hosts in the farm- 
house that was to be her home, and was pressed 
to eat, her throat seemed to close and she could 
not swallow. 

Other little girls took her by the hand and 
carried her off with them — friendly and cheerful 
little girls. The village was surrounded by trees 
laden with fruit, and grapes ripened on the vines. 
Poultry picked about on the doorstep, as in old 
times; the weather was fine; she saw well-known 
sights again; nothing seemed changed. Other 
children who had also come from a long way off 
played about, now quite accustomed to the new 
life. But she could not do it, and soon they found 
her sitting by herself, with staring eyes and a 
pale little face that had forgotten how to smile. 

Nothing could reconcile her with a world which 
she had suddenly discovered to be full of cruelty. 
Clothes, presents of toys, kind words, even her 
mother's care, were unavailing to heal the poor 
injured heart of this trustful and trusting little 
girl. 

She died a little more than two weeks after 
her arrival. The doctor declared that a slight 
wound in her foot had become inflamed and set 
up general blood-poisoning. But her father 
believed that she had had her blood " curdled " 
by the sight of so many horrors. 



GENEVA 91 



The country-folk standing round the narrow 
grave shook their heads sadly. To bring a child 
so far and then see her die in three days ! 

While the repatriated families pass through our 
streets I look at the dark or fair heads, the eight 
to ten year old faces — the age at which suffering 
begins but cannot yet be understood. How many 
over-sensitive little girls and precocious boys 
wake up at night with a start, bathed in sweat, 
and again pass through those hours of terror ! 

If only one could tell of all those things: those 
talks, those extraordinary or heartrending cases ! 
Every day one heard of more distress. One lived 
in the heart of tragedy, always the same, but 
always varying and constantly renewed. The 
nameless horrors of war entered these rooms with 
every convoy — became the very air which we 
breathed — and it seemed as though we could 
never have sympathy and tenderness enough to 
relieve this burden of disaster. 

A woman in mourning with prematurely aged 
face sat apart, huddled up on her valise, speaking 
to no one, waving aside the tea offered her, turn- 
ing her head away when spoken to. A Geneva 
lady sat down beside her and quietly .took her 
hand. " Whom have you lost ?" she asked. 
Then she said in a low, sad voice, " My little 
daughter," and added, with eyes fixed on vacancy, 



92 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

as if she still saw the awful scene: " She was seven 
years old. A bullet struck her right under my 
eyes." Then silence; there was nothing to say. 
The mother continued: " Yet she had done no 
harm." 

The two women were silent : words only wound 
sorrow like this. The poor woman, who for 
weeks had been left all alone with her broken 
heart, felt the love offered her. Suddenly she 
began to cry, and kept on crying — the first tears 
that she had beerftible to shed. The sight of her 
sitting there sobbing with her face in her hands 
reminded me of a child's remark which I had 
lately heard. A teacher asked his pupils, " What 
does weeping mean ?" The little things were at 
a loss, as they could not define it. 

" Come, now, when does one weep ?" A voice 
replied: " When one is a little less unhappy." 

This lonely woman was perhaps a little less 
unhappy than before, since she wept. . . . 

Such sorrow was not uncommon. We have 
seen mothers go by who had lost their children 
through sickness, fatigue, change of life. Some 
of them were lost in the turmoil of departure; 
others died in the train. 

A young Lorraine girl told me how her sister, 
who had two children, went out to get them some 
milk, and found her house blazing when she re- 
turned. The two children were shrieking at the 



GENEVA 93 



windows. She tried to rush in to them, but the 
soldiers held her back to save her life. The 
children were burnt. Nothing more was heard 
of her : perhaps she became insane. 

Many old countrywomen who had never left 
their village, and had watched it bombarded and 
burnt, regarded having to leave it as the cruellest 
blow of all. " Even though all our place had 
been burned down, one was glad to be there," said 
one of them. 

During one of these journeys I lent an arm to 
an emaciated, depressed-looking woman who 
walked with difficulty. I said to her : " You 
have been through a lot." 

Then she gave me an almost brutal nudge, 
and, with a scared look, whispered: "Can't you 
be quiet ? Didn't you see the gendarme, quite 
close to us ? I believe he heard you." 

Poor, bewildered, mind-sick woman ! She 
did not yet understand that she was in Swit- 
zerland. 

These unhappy creatures were amazed at 
being shown attention and care, nor could they 
find words in which to express their gratitude. 
" Oh, sir, tell me your name, that I may mention 
it in my prayers," said a refugee to one of the 
stewards. 

An old woman from the south of France, 



94 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

suffering from inflammation of the throat, could 
not believe that she would not be allowed to pay 
for the oranges given her. " Come, now, you 
don't mean to tell me that you do all this for 
nothing." And how they were rejoiced by 
distributions of sweets and pastilles ! " Oh, 
madame, I can't say what it is to have some- 
thing nice in one's mouth ! What a difference it 
makes to us !" 

An old Alsatian woman, who spoke very broken 
French and had been given a tricolour by a 
steward, asked him: " Am I to keep this as a 
souvenir ?" When he assured her that this was 
so, she began to cry, and, losing her head a little 
in her emotion, she dried her eyes with the flag ! 

A woman sat unmoved in a corner, nursing her 
child. She had followed the procession mechani- 
cally, and was so exhausted that she no longer 
even noticed that her baby was dirty, and that 
the rags in which it was swathed were damp-. 
A committee-man took it gently from her arms, 
and, after reassuring her, took it away and handed 
it over to the ladies in the nursery, A Samaritan 
brought back the baby — a clean, rosy baby in new 
linen, a spotless flannel dress, a soft woollen 
sweater, socks, and white slippers. Its smiling, 
contented face, and the tender care given to 
dressing it made it like one of those pet children 



GENEVA 95 



whom one presents at dessert to its delighted 
f amily. The girl went from group to group asking 
" Whose baby is this ? " But there was no reply. 
Then an assistant took the child and, standing on 
a table, displayed him to the crowd of refugees, 
shouting in a voice which was heard above the 
hubbub of talk: " 'Whose baby is this ?" 

Presently a low, trembling voice answered, 
" Mine, sir." Its mother had recognized it only 
after a moment's hesitation, for she had not seen 
her little one look so bonny for many a week past. 
She took it and pressed it to her, unable to say 
a word for tears. 

One of my friends took her needle and thread 
every morning to sew buttons on to the worn 
clothes. One day she put some buttons on the 
waistcoat of a respectable and very dignified old 
man. The seams of his cloak had given way, and 
were held together somehow with pins. She 
took it upon herself to sew them up again, while 
he watched her, quite astounded. No doubt, the 
woman's action reminded him of his destitution, 
recalled, perhaps, other faces that once bent over 
his clothes. An indescribable emotion seized him, 
and when she put her face close to his to speak to 
him — he was a little deaf — he suddenly imprinted 
a good smacking kiss on her cheek, and looked at 
her as if he had just done the most natural thing 



96 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

in the world — one as natural as allowing her to 
mend his cloak. 

Feeling all the distress expressed in the kiss, 
she could scarcely restrain her tears, and it seemed 
to her, as she looked at the pitiable crowd which 
thronged the thick atmosphere of the room, that 
all the sadness, all the gratitude, of these poor 
creatures escaped and came to her in that kiss. 

An old man was entering Switzerland as a 
prisoner of war for the second time: he had been 
interned in 1870 with Bourbaki's army. So he 
asked to be allowed to visit the place of his first 
internment. They took him to the Church of 
the Fusterie. While passing over the Mont Blanc 
bridge, our guest of former days recognized 
Rousseau's Island, and remembered that he had 
been taken there for walks. He gazed for a long 
time at the church, went round it, and kept on 
comparing it with his old recollections of it. He 
remembered that it had partitions, and said that 
he was greatly interested to see it again. Then 
he was silent for a moment, thinking, perhaps, 
of the years that had elapsed between the two 
journeys. Though not astonished to see the same 
happenings repeated at long intervals, as in in- 
exorable rhythm, he marvelled that fate had 
brought him back to this town. Suddenly he 
found his tongue, and could not express his thanks 
sufficiently. 



GENEVA 97 



There comes before my eyes again an octo- 
genarian couple, an old man and an old woman, 
bent and shrivelled, both of them. They walked 
with difficulty, holding each other's arms, at the 
rear of the procession. The frightened glances 
which they cast round them, and their look of 
being more out of their element than the rest, 
told plainly enough that this was their first jour- 
ney — and what a journey I Their clothes were 
in rags. When the procession reached its destina- 
tion and the roll had been called over, and we 
wished to take the pair to the clothing departments 
for men and women respectively, they protested 
with one voice: " Oh ! please don't separate us 1" 
She, especially, was most unwilling, and besought 
the commissioner: " Good sir, you mustn't separ- 
ate us ; we are so old. Then, you know, what with 
this wicked war, who can say that we have much 
longer to live ? Also, you must know that we 
have been married fifty years to-day." At the 
word they looked at one another and smiled, 
despite their distress. 

Their golden wedding ! Half a century of 
love, of life together, of sorrows shared — even 
this last sorrow — the loss of their home and exile. 
. . . And to-day was their anniversary ! 

However, the old man, who was the more 
worldly-wise of the two, reassured his wife and half 
persuaded her. She allowed herself to be taken 

7 



98 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 



to the clothing depot. But we could see by her 
reluctance that her doubts remained. Had not 
their chief care during these long terrible weeks 
been to keep together ? 

The old man was the first to regain the large 
hall. In his black frockcoat, with a flower in 
the buttonhole, he was hardly recognizable. He 
had combed his grey locks and washed his hands, 
and had assumed the respectable look and be- 
haviour proper to a man who celebrates his 
fiftieth wedding-day. He stood close to the 
door, waiting for his wife; but when she came 
in he did not recognise her any more than she 
recognized him. Almost new clothes — a jacket 
and skirt — had changed her. She had the clear 
face of a well-preserved old woman. She ap- 
proached him timidly, a little awkwardly, her 
anxious eyes filled with tears. She saw her 
husband, but still was looking for him. 

They come face to face. Their eyes meet. 
They discover one another. And in a moment 
they are in one another's arms, weeping together, 
but this time joy is mingled with their tears. 
***** 

The refugees were given their meal during the 
hour's wait — often at the public kitchens, when 
the times of arrival made this convenient. They 
took their seats at long tables decorated with 
flowers, and smiled once more when they saw 



GENEVA 99 



the bouquets which were given to the women on 
leaving. We never ran short of flowers. Owners 
of gardens sent them in; everyone who had a 
border robbed it; and the florists and poor 
market flower-sellers brought their contributions. 

The stewards and ladies helped wait at table, 
forming a chain and passing the plates along. 
These kind waiters included gendarmes and 
eminent professors. Kindly stewards might be 
seen engaged in persuading frightened or tired 
children to eat their neglected food. 

Everyone who witnessed all this misery was 
so eager to help and so deeply touched that 
differences of education and circumstances were 
wiped away in a wonderful manner. In the 
presence of the victims all had the same thought 
the same impulse — not one of the smallest boons 
conferred on us by these poor travellers. 

After the meal they were led back to the school. 
The police, stewards, and ladies took charge of the 
children, who were carried, if it rained, so that 
they might not get their feet wet. And up went 
all the umbrellas — a rare collection of umbrellas 
which had been sent to the station anonymously 
for the benefit of the refugees. 

One evening in particular comes back to me. 
A group of grave sad-faced men at the end of one 
of the tables were most polite in their thanks 
whenever anyone handed them a plate. All 



ioo THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

wore shabby and dirty clothes, but two or three 
of them had unusually refined features and 
seemed to be men of education. After dessert 
coffee was served and then came the signal for 
departure. The mothers collected their children 
and stowed away bottles of warm milk in their 
handbags, while children's toys and old men's 
sticks were recovered. Suddenly, amid all this 
hubbub, silence fell — no one knew how — and one 
of the men at the top of the table was seen to rise. 
For a moment he stood there, bolt upright, 
motionless, dumb, with his eyes closed. I 
recollect that he had a long grey beard, and that 
in the strong light his face wore a kind of solemn 
beauty that I had not noticed just before. Sud- 
denly he began to speak in a somewhat hesitating 
and broken voice, which grew stronger as he 
prpceeded. He addressed all the silent men and 
women around him : 

" My friends, we must not leave Switzerland 
without giving her our blessing and our thanks. 
All my life through I shall remember this even- 
ing's meal, served by kindly hands. It is months 
and months since anyone treated us like this. 
Over yonder we were, it is true, given food; but 
in what a manner ! Here they have waited upon 
us lovingly. We shall never forget it. I thank 
you." And the others repeated after him: 
" Thank you, thank you." 

All the refugees surrounded us, and there were 



GENEVA ioi 



hand-clasps charged with feeling — the hearty 
grips by which those who cannot speak impart 
the superabundance of their emotions. And we 
thought that it was our country to which they 
gave their thanks in this fashion. 

In the morning we escorted them to the tram- 
way, where a dense crowd was always waiting 
on the pavement to watch them depart. When 
all had taken their places, the little children had 
been handed to their mothers, and the oldest 
and most infirm people had been made as com- 
fortable as might be on the seats, the four-coach 
tram rolled off, and everyone stood at the windows 
to wave us a last good-bye. As we replied to 
these friendly signals we experienced a curious 
feeling of loss. We shall never see those faces 
again; they will be scattered far and wide to the 
four corners of France. The convoy, a single 
living thing, as it were, with a thousand sorrows, 
will exist no longer. Just for one day it has been 
granted us" to share the life of these men and 
women, to enter into their grief and their diffi- 
culties. These are no commonplace meetings. 
At such times all superficiality and convention 
is swept aside; hearts meet and open and read 
one another, disclosing themselves without words 
and becoming linked together by all that is 
deepest and saddest and most real in them. One 



102 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

becomes attached to these friends of an hour who 
have unbosomed themselves so unreservedly. 
Their faces will return and visit us. And we 
shall ask ourselves, " Where are they ? Are they 
at last able to forget things a little ? Have they 
at last found peace ?" 

There were convoys even more pitiable than 
those already described — convoys of incurables 
who had been evacuated from their hospitals in a 
body. The strongest among them dragged them- 
selves along with the help of their sticks. Others 
were driven in motor-cars. The helpless were on 
stretchers. Oh ! that long procession of stretchers 
right down the road ! There were poor dis- 
traught women who kept repeating meaningless 
words and actions, unceasingly vexed by the same 
distresses. In most cases this mental disorder 
was due to terror. 

There were whole convoys of very young boys 
and old men, returning from concentration camps. 
They had been captured early in the war and 
separated from their families. Amid the confu- 
sion of the sudden parting they had had to leave 
filled with amazement and grief; that was all they 
knew about it. Among them were mayors and 
priests, seized as hostages. Their emaciated faces 
told what they had suffered. . . . They were 
covered with vermin. 

" Don't come near me, ma'am, said a young 
boy considerately; "lam alive with lice." The 



GENEVA 103 



sorry-looking young people cheered up when 
cigarettes were handed round. They crowded 
about us. Everyone wanted to tell*his story. 
They drew from their pockets knives cleverly 
made out of sharpened hoop-iron, and spoons 
shaped out of wood. We did not need their 
words to make us realize their sufferings; it was 
quite sufficient to look at their pinched faces. 

These lads of fourteen or fifteen had been with- 
out news of their parents for months. The old 
men had been torn from their wives, who were 
still " over yonder." Discharged soldiers sun- 
denly burst into tears when talking of their little 
ones. And how could one console them ? Their 
country had been ravaged, their possessions 
destroyed — they could put up with all that. But 
to get no news. . . ! 

" I have seven children, and my wife was 
about to give birth to an eighth. And I hear 
nothing. ..." 

" I have five children . . . the youngest is two 
years old." Voices break ; pale, bearded faces 
contract and turn away. These men's quiet tears 

are more moving than all the women's sobs. 
" Ah ! those who are all together don't suffer 

as we do I" 

The parents of the soldier whose fate is hidden 

from them know the meaning of alternating fear 

and hope. To-morrow, perhaps, they will hear 



104 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

from the son they have given to their country. 
If he has laid down his life, the dread sacrifice 
will be made less hard by the knowledge that he 
died in the performance of his duty. But to 
tremble for wife and little ones still in the ravaged 
country, and to be certain that every attempt 
to get at them is doomed before it begins — " Ah !"* 

I remember the crushed bearing and difficult 
tears of an old man Whose wife had remained 
behind. 

" We had never parted," said he, " and 
now ..." His voice broke, and he fell silent. 
But the restrained sorrow of that old, rugged-, 
faced man ! 

A thin, yellow-faced hunchback tells me that 
he is done for and is going to Evian to die there. 
The conditions in camp had aggravated a liver 
trouble. He had fallen into consumption. His 
wife and daughter had stayed in the Meuse. He 
shows me a letter which his wife managed to get 
to him in Germany — well written, very tender, 
telling him to be sure and take care of himself — 
" You are the dearest thing we have." He looks 
at the sheet with a smile of distress and tears in 
his eyes. " I shall not see them again. I know 
I am done for; I know something about medi- 
cine." After a spell of silence he continues: " I 

* A few weeks ago it became possible to send short 
letters into the invaded parts of France. 



GENEVA 105 



was happy enough, as happy as M. Poincare 
himself, before the war. My wife is thirty-five. 
. . . We have a fine child who grows like a chest- 
nut-tree. Yes ! we were happy. I was always 
a family man." 

Then, as if unable to escape the grief of his 
tragedy, he tells his story: " And we could have 
escaped. We had actually started off with the 
cattle. Then we thought, ' The Germans will 
not come,' and went back home. What a trifle 
things hang on !" 

Most of the men were absolutely destitute, 
literally not owning a halfpenny, though they 
have German papers given them in exchange for 
a whole life's savings. There was one young 
man, I remember, who had a dignified carriage 
and a face that commanded respect — the Mayor 
of his village and formerly in easy circumstances. 
My friend was mending his clothes, and he said 
to her suddenly and somewhat shamefacedly: 
" Madam, since you are so kind, could you give 
me four sous ... to buy some tobacco ?" 

On some occasions the women of a village are 
taken one way and the men in another; and the 
parties go into the unknown, these to the right, 
those to the left. A refugee who had been 
separated from her husband in this fashion 
sketched in a few words a picture of these de- 
partures : 



io6 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

" One day we were told that we were moving. 
The men and boys were collected in the square, 
all the women outside the village. Everybody 
was crying out and weeping. The men went off 
through the fields, we by the road. We never saw 
one another again, and nothing more has been 
heard of them." 

Then the children who had to be taken along, 
the various indispensable things that had to be 
carried, the endless tramps along the road to the 
railway-station through all that despair . . . ! 

Some of the evacuated folk have not yet ended 
their travels. While their brothers in misfortune 
prepared to depart, the hospital car came for 
these. Samaritans transferred them in it to the 
infirmary, where they were tended after their 
arrival. And that was their last journey. 

At the hospital care and love embraced them. 
The doctor and nurses who took them in at the 
Rue de Berne proved themselves friends till the 
end of their sojourn; and when their last hour 
came they did not feel themselves forsaken. If 
they have not been able to reach their native 
soil, they have at least been buried in a friendly 
land. They have well earned their rest. 

From March, 1915, the work of repatriating 
the refugees was handed over to the military 
authorities. Territorial soldiers took the place 
of the gendarmes and civil police. It was they 



GENEVA 107 



who gave an arm to the old men, took charge 
of bundles, and carried the children. Nothing 
was so pretty as to see these fair-haired little 
things from the Ardennes and the North 
sleeping on the shoulder of a strapping, grizzled 
infantryman. These fathers of families, to check 
the tears of the weary, bewildered babies, made 
use again of the pet names by which once on 
a time they called their own little ones. The 
children were reassured, and smiled at them and 
stroked the moustachioed cheeks of the fatherly 
soldiers who knew just how to carry them. 

After that the convoys of five hundred evac- 
uated people arrived regularly twice a day at 
fixed hours. After roll-call in the Rue de Berne, 
they were fitted out, the poorest helped, and 
the sick attended to; they then continued their 
journey almost at once, the tram taking them 
to Annemasse. Many of us were deeply grieved 
that their large numbers made it impossible to 
comfort each one of these unfortunates properly. 
They were so many, and the time so short. We 
had to work at top speed, and to content our- 
selves with attending to the pressing needs of 
the sick and the children. 

So the populace made itself responsible for 
completing the welcome which circumstances 
rendered too summary to satisfy our sympathetic 
hearts. From the moment our guests sjet foot 



108 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

in Geneva the populace spread round them that 
atmosphere of sympathy and kindness which 
was so comforting, and made them stand 
erect and smile and shed the tears that ease 
sorrow. 

We knew to a moment when they would 
arrive — there was no more unpunctuality — and 
every day, in the morning and afternoon, the 
crowd collected round the station, watching 
silently, with hands full of gifts. The whole 
population of Geneva was there — magistrates, 
workmen, professors, clergymen, clerks; all the 
dwellers in the poorer quarters of the city through 
which these sad processions passed every day, 
who were never weary of giving; many women, 
leading their children. The children brought boxes 
of chocolate, flowers, and toys; their parents, 
clothes, bags, valises, small change. Poor women 
carried bags crammed with provisions. 

We waited patiently, while the soldiers walked 
up and down, pressing back the crowd to keep a 
passage clear. Everybody obeyed them. Motor- 
cars lent to the Samaritans by their owners came 
up one behind the other and formed a line along 
the platform. 

The train had come in. The cars drove off 
almost immediately with the sick cases. From 
the station steps one saw the first of the refugees 
appear, surrounded by soldiers. They descended 



GENEVA 109 



slowly, and passed by. Others followed them. 
Then the dense crowd to right and left moved 
towards them as one man with hands outstretched^- 
Nothing could be more beautiful than this pressing 
forward to meet the victims of misfortune. They 
now no longer saw a strange town, but only two 
living walls of faces turned to them, hands which 
gave to them. It was a sort of spontaneous vote 
of welcome, a wordless protest against the ills 
they were enduring, a unanimous opening of 
hearts. The refugees felt the love given them 
as they passed, and tears of thankfulness for 
deliverance replied to tears of pity. 

The crowd surrounded the procession and 
escorted it to the school. Sometimes conversa- 
tions were started. The poor things would stop 
a moment to express their thanks, a look of de- 
lighted surprise suddenly transfiguring their tired 
faces. 

The soldiers, obedient to their orders, kept 
pressing back the crowd, but in kindly fashion 
permitted this touching intercourse and helped 
travellers whose hands were full. One felt that 
at heart they approved what the crowd was 
doing. 

Passers-by on the pavement in front of the 
gateway watched the gates swing to; and when, 
two hours later, the refugees were brought out 
again to be taken to the train, they found the 



no THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

crowd still there, as if keeping a precious appoint- 
ment. 

It was the same thing every day. 

***** 

In January, 1916, the last regular convoys 
coming direct from invaded France passed through 
— the last up to the present.* They were 
made up of large, poor families, evacuated by 
order. 

Here, too, was misery indescribable. Day after 
day, late in the afternoon, one saw the refugees 
descending the large stairway leading to the 
Rue de Lausanne. Crushed and sad were these 
groups that swayed towards us — bare-headed 
women, clusters of children clinging to their 
skirts, wrapped-up infants, old country-women 
in beehive bonnets with a thin shawl cross- 
wise on their breasts, aged couples holding 
each other's arms, peasants in smocks or cor- 
duroy coats, with fine, rugged faces fringed with 
white hair. Their movements are slow and stiff, 
and one feels that these old bodies are crippled 
and crushed by an immense weariness. Many 
women are weeping, and the attendant crowd 
strives to comfort them as they go along. " Cheer 
up ! Dry your tears ! Cheer up !" 

What a clattering this flock makes as they drag 
their clogs over the cobblestones ! What meek- 

* A few belated convoys went through in the spring. 



GENEVA in 



ness — the docile carriage of frightened people ! 
An old man who stepped off the pavement stepped 
back again hurriedly. Another, so bent that he 
seemed to be looking for something on the ground, 
tries to quicken his speed. 

Snatches of conversations are exchanged be- 
tween the refugees and the crowd. 

" Yes ! Everything has been destroyed down 
our way." 

" Near Craonne. . . . Ah ! the guns. . . . 
We took to our cellars." 

" At our place eighty civilians were killed by 
shells." 

" I was going into the fields to work under fire 
with my little girl when a bullet struck my sabot. 
One paid no attention to that sort of thing." 

" A shell burst in our house. . . . The school- 
mistress was indoors, and had a foot blown off. 
We never found the foot in the room." 

Three children are travelling by themselves. 
Their mother had been shot. A woman has 
seven little ones with her, two of them adopted 
— " What else could one do ? One couldn't leave 
them behind, eh ?" 

Think of the rainy days when the procession 
clattered along in the water; of the harassed 
women; of the children falling down in the mud 
and being picked up plastered from head to foot ; 
of the coughings; of the childish voices; of the 



ii2 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

impassive and dumb old folk; of the passers-by 
who burst into tears ! 

Some French refugees at Geneva and repa- 
triated people scattered in Savoy used to come 
to the station in hopes of hearing, by some lucky 
chance, news of their folk who had stayed " yon- 
der." Now and then one saw a woman suddenly 
leave the crowd and fall into the arms of a refu- 
gee: friends and relations were restored thus to 
one another. 

During the whole of last spring a mother came 
to every convoy to look for her two children. One 
summer evening they passed through. They 
recognized her, just as the tram was starting for 
Annemasse, and flung themselves out of the car 
and fell in her arms with cries of " Mother !" 

A charwoman in a blue apron asked permission 
to enter the school in the Rue de Berne. " My 
godson is in the convoy. I want to see him. He 
is fifty-four, is my godson. Now I shall have to 
find someone else to send my parcels to." 

Old helpless bodies are taken from the motor- 
car — women who have to be carried. One sees 
groups swallowed up in the half-darkness, atten- 
dants carrying poor creatures of whom only the 
bent back and a wisp of grey hair is visible. One 
of them said: " It would have been better to die 
sooner. . . ." 

Human wrecks whose only possession is now 



GENEVA 113 



a weakly body, and pains of all sorts now aggra- 
vated beyond remedy. The other invalids wait 
their turn in the car, not moving from the seat 
in which they were placed, saying nothing and 
showing no surprise. 

I can still see one of these listless old men who 
suddenly seemed to have a flash of consciousness 
as the car moved off. He took off his hat and 
made shift to smile. The wind blew his grey 
locks about his pale face; and until the car dis- 
appeared at the end of the street we saw this 
face turned to us and brightened by a thought 
that had not been put in words. 

I see, too, a grandmother carrying a two-year- 
old grandson and driving four other children 
before her — small boys of four to eight, whom 
one would never have taken for brothers, as they 
were almost of a height and clad in the queerest 
of clothes. She had a thin, weather-beaten, red 
face, framed in an old crape bonnet with strings 
tied round her wrinkled cheeks. As she re- 
arranged the baby which she carried on her 
back, she said: " They are heavy." 

She walked straight ahead, bending forward 
under her burden, looking neither to right nor left. 
At times she uttered a few words in a low voice, 
and one had to lean close to her to catch them. 

" I have reared eleven of them. ..." 

" They have kept my daughter yonder." 

8 



H4 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

She moved off into the unknown, with set face, 
deaf, apparently, to what was said, her eyes fixed 
on the distance — on the past, maybe — a solitary 
figure, with five grandchildren to provide for, 
who would have to begin again in her old age the 
work of her long life. Yet only these words of 
resignation escaped her — " They are heavy." 

These were pictures of human distress which 
we shall never forget — haunted by the misery 
springing from this war. This generation of ours 
which has witnessed sights like these will feel its 
utmost efforts inadequate to repair the damage 
— to build things up again. 

Nothing is more terrible than the agitation of 
these uprooted octogenarians, who in many cases 
are travelling without a single friend to look 
after them. They have been torn from their 
people, from the home in which their life passed 
quietly. Take, for example, the woman of 
eighty-eight whom we saw in a procession, whose 
only baggage and companion was a little dog 
which she carried wrapped up in linen. She 
showed it to us, with the words: " It cost me a 
lot of trouble to save her; I had to hide her for 
three months. Yes ! I lived in a little house. 
It was taken from me." A woman by her side 
corroborated her: " She comes from our village. 
They took everything from her; but don't worry, 
I'm looking after her." 



GENEVA 115 



We then asked the old dame : " What have you 
got in the way of money ? They will change 
it for you." "None; I've got none." Then, 
pointing to the little dog, " That's all that's left 
to me." 

She was given a basket for her dog, and a 
collar was put on its neck. W 7 e were quite over- 
come by the childish joy and thankfulness shown 
by the poor old thing. 

Another convoy contained a solitary old woman 
of eighty-five. She was a peasant, decently 
dressed in black skirt and bonnet; slim and ex- 
hausted looking, with a refined face that might 
have been shaped out of yellow wax. No doubt 
she could neither read nor write and had never 
left her village. She, too, said: "They took 
everything from me. I have nothing left." 

She did not know what had become of her 
daughter, whom she had lost. She had been 
obliged to go one way and her daughter another. 
Will they ever meet again ? Nor has she any 
news of her grandson, who has been fighting since 
the war broke out. 

She says: "I have seen and suffered every- 
thing." 

They offered her clothes. Would she like some 
linen, or a cloak, or some shoes ? But she shook 
her head slowly, and said to the lady who asked 
her: " Why dost thou take so much trouble over 



n6 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

my poor body ? It is finished." This Biblical 
use of the word " thou " had something touching 
about it, and brought tears to the eyes of my 
friend, who insisted gently: " Please tell me what 
we can do for you." The old woman answered: 
" Nothing I have lost everything. Give me a 
kiss." 

My friend will never forget the kiss and the 
warm hug of that mystical peasant woman, who 
suddenly exclaimed: "We shall meet again up 
above," 

Then, in spite of her protests, she was given a 
new set of clothes. As each article was handed 
her she objected with gentle obstinacy: " It is 
a waste of good things. My body is done with, 
thou seest." 

When the time came to rejoin the convoy as 
it went off, and we went to find the old woman 
and put her in the car, she repeated as she parted 
from those who had welcomed her: " But we shall 
meet again above." 

Her look of happy certainty transfigured her. 
She who had "seen and suffered everything," for 
whom the things of this world were henceforth 
of no account, left behind her feelings of admira- 
tion. She was not merely resigned; the certainty 
that sorrow had brought her made her rich with 
riches that no human chance would ever be able 
to diminish. 



GENEVA 117 



Thus, day after day, week after week, month 
after month, the procession of victims passed 
through. Those who saw it go by will ever have 
this vision of despair fresh before their eyes. Never 
was seen such concentrated distress, such a waste 
of happiness and health and life. The convoys of 
poor human wreckage showed us continually the 
cruellest side of war, unillumined by the heroism 
of those who sacrifice themselves and go to their 
death singing, as the bugle sounds the charge and 
the colours wave, and military pomp and cir- 
cumstance does something to hide the dreadful 
slaughter under a cloak of glory. 

The heroism of these human flocks may be 
called resignation. They are crushed by restric- 
tions, accustomed to annoyances, obedient to 
orders, dumb and sorrowful. They know well 
enough that their misfortunes do not aid their 
country. They have no share in the greatness 
which springs from willing self-sacrifice. It is 
not their privilege to raise their heads and smile 
at their glorious sufferings. 

Yet — another kind of greatness comes from 
these sufferings, borne apparently in vain. They 
love more than ever the soil from which they were 
driven, the country for whose sake they lost their 
all. These French folk have only their French 
birth left to them, but that will henceforward 
take the place of everything. 



n8 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

Like the old woman who was able to weep 
again when she kissed the tricolour, they felt a 
quiver of joy in the presence of their flag which 
other French people will never know. They have 
passed through invasion, terror, bombardment, 
flames; they have seen their houses burnt to the 
ground, and their brothers slain. They will re- 
member; they will be the first to utter, every 
moment of their lives, " Let us stand together. 
Let us stand shoulder to shoulder, let us quit our- 
selves like men, so that there shall be no more 
war." 

They never said these words: yet we heard 
them, and we took them to heart. They will 
remain after their speakers have passed away. 



HISTORICAL NOTE 

THE FIRST STEPS 

When war broke out, the belligerent countries 
generally informed enemy subjects that they must 
leave their territory without delay. All the people 
in question were deeply perturbed; and many of 
them, for one reason or other (the overcrowding 
of trains, the difficulty of obtaining permits, etc.) 
could not cross the frontiers, and so were interned. 
The first class of civilians repatriated by Swit- 
zerland was made up of people like these. There 
were but few convoys of French civilians. Soon 
they were succeeded by a second class of in- 
terned people, inhabitants of the invaded pro- 
vinces, who were sent to Germany and immured 
there, and, after a longer or shorter stay in con- 
centration camps and fortresses, were sent back 
to France. 

Then came the third class — evacuated people 
who were captured in their villages and sent back 
to France via Switzerland. 

The above pages are concerned especially with 

repatriated folk of the last two classes. 

***** 
119 



120 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

At the beginning of the war the Swiss Con- 
federation offered its services to France, Germany, 
and Austria-Hungary, to help the repatriation of 
interned civilians* (at that time the question of 
dealing with evacuated persons had not arisen). 
On September 22, 1914, the Federal Council 
decided to institute a department for the repa- 
triation of interned civilians, with headquarters 
at Berne. The same day it issued a regulation, 
the first article of which is as follows : 

" First Article. — A department for repatria- 
ting interned civilians has been formed under the 
direction of the Political Department. This 
department, with headquarters at Berne, is re- 
sponsible for returning to their country of origin 
women, children, sick persons, the aged, and other 
civilians not fit to bear arms, who have been 
detained by order of an administrative or military 
authority of one of the States engaged in the 
present war."f 

Negotiations with the belligerent States were 
difficult. The interned civilians included a 
number of men of military age, and a distinction 
had therefore to be made. An agreement was 

* Ernest Rothlisberger, Die schweizerische Hilfsaktion 
fur die Opfer des Krieges und das Heimschaffungswerk , 
Separatabdruck aus dem Politischen Jahrbuch der 
Schweizerischen Eidgenossenschaft, Berne, 191 5. 

t Feuille Federale, 1914, iv., p. 127. Professor 
Ernest Rothlisberger was appointed president of it. 



HISTORICAL NOTE 121 

first come to on the basis of returning to their 
respective countries all women and children, and 
afterwards men under eighteen and over fifty 
years of age. 

The cost of transport, said the agreement, 
" will be borne by the respective States of origin 
of the persons repatriated. In return, public 
generosity will be expected to bear the cost of 
entertaining and housing the interned during 
their passage through Switzerland." This State 
appeal to individuals is quite in accordance with 
Swiss traditions, and it may be said that in 
Schaffhausen, as in Zurich, Geneva, Rorschach, 
and elsewhere, in every Swiss town, " public 
generosity " did not fail to do its duty. 

The Scheme in Operation. 

The first French interned entered Switzerland 
on October 22, 1914, and on November 2 the first 
Austro-Germans passed through. The work had 
begun. 

On December 21, 19 14, the Federal Political 
Department, acting on representations that had 
been made by the countries interested, announced 
that the repatriation of interned civilians in 
convoys must be considered at an end. The 
Supply Commissions were to cease working on 
December 24. 



122 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

In spite of this announcement, transportation 
did not stop. On January 5, 1915, fresh convoys 
were passing through Switzerland. They were 
composed almost entirely of French exiles from 
departments occupied by the German armies. 
Between February 4 and 14, 1915, Schaffhausen 
alone received more than 4,000 of them. Things 
were being speeded up, as it was understood in- 
ternationally that this extension of time would 
terminate on February 28. Every day a body 
of about 450 repatriated people left Schaffhausen 
for Geneva. By March 1, 20,475 persons de- 
tained in enemy country had crossed Switzerland 
in 186 convoys (the largest numbered 739) and 
returned to their respective countries. 

However, at the beginning of March, 1915, the 
Berne Bureau and the forwarding committees 
were dissolved, and the Confederation put the 
transportation of evacuated people under mili- 
tary control. Handling the convoys was trans- 
ferred to the Federal Territorial Service, and 
from March 6 onwards these unfortunates con- 
tinued to pass through under the sympathetic 
care and friendly eye of the Landsturm* and of 
committees appointed for the purpose. Even 
to-day convoys still pass through. 

General Organization. — It is evident that trans- 

* The soldiers of the Landsturm are practically the 
counterpart of the French Territorial troops. 






HISTORICAL NOTE 123 

port of this kind required a very complicated 
and in some ways delicate organization — all the 
more so because the travellers to be conveyed had 
so often suffered indescribable misery, both moral 
and physical. Provision had to be made not 
only for railway facilities, but for food and 
lodging during the journey. Furthermore, the 
trains conveyed many sick persons, some of them 
actually dying, and it was needful to be prepared 
for all contingencies. 

It was obvious, however, that everything could 
not be foreseen, and that as needs developed they 
had to be satisfied. For this reason round every 
departmental commission there developed sub- 
sidiary organizations which assisted the fugitives 
in many different ways.* 

At Geneva, where many trains arrived in the 
evening, the executive of the Town Council 
offered large premises in several of the primary 
schools for the accommodation of the refugees. 
Every day a large number of volunteer stewards 
— ladies and gentlemen — representatives of re- 

* Such as helping to find lost persons; establishing 
touch with relations and friends in Swiss towns; dis- 
tributing post-cards and flowers; lending umbrellas, etc. 
Many of the kind stewards acted as correspondents for 
poor illiterate folk, and kept the restaurant tables 
decorated with vases and bouquets of flowers, etc. We 
know that these small cares and attentions were greatly 
appreciated by those on whom they were conferred. 



124 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

cognized bodies, Samaritans, rescue workers, 
police, employes of the Federal railways and 
of the public buildings wherein the evacuated 
and interned people were lodged, restaurant staffs 
(especially those of the public kitchens), manned 
the breach, and it will generally be acknowledged 
that they played their part nobly. 

The convoys might arrive in the small hours 
of the morning, but a sufficient staff was always 
there to receive them. And sometimes the 
weather was bad enough ! In other towns, 
though the nature of the working " commissions " 
varied in details, there was the same universal 
good-will and, speaking generally, the same or- 
ganization. 

Forwarding Committees. — The Political De- 
partment appointed Federal Commissioners from 
each town at the termini of the railways tra- 
versed by the convoys. Their duties were to 
direct the reception, feeding, and forwarding of 
evacuated and interned civilians. 

As soon as the convoys were put under military 
control, the sectional committees were dissolved, 
and the various committees thenceforward worked 
in harmony with the military authorities. Zurich, 
which previously had played but a minor part, 
now became a chief centre. Its Committee 
widened its scope considerably, and its president* 

* Pastor Cuendet. 



HISTORICAL NOTE 125 

had a very complete organization ready for 
work.* 

The forwarding commissioners and committee 
presidents were backed up by unlimited devotion. 
We must refrain from mentioning names — we 
should have to give them all — as anonymity is 
the rule in work of this sort. 

Transport. — French interned and evacuated ci- 
vilians entered Switzerland at Schaffhausen, and 
left our country at Geneva, whence the tramways 
took them to Annemasse, the town nearest to our 
frontier. 

Interned German and Austro-Hungarian ci- 
vilians arrived at Geneva, and from there were 
sent — the first to Singen in the Grand Duchy of 
Baden, via Winterthur; the last to Bregenz 
(Vorarlberg) via Rorschach. 

Supply Services. — Supplying these many pas- 
sengers (they numbered up to 1,350 in a single 
day) was evidently the heaviest task that had to 
be faced. All the travellers had to be fed; also 
medically cared for, cleaned, washed, and, in 
almost every case, clothed. Many of them had 
been seized in the street and carried off without 
a chance of going home and getting a few clothes 
or some underlinen. In the winter we saw 

* Documents sur la guerre Europeenne. Le passage 
des rapatries d Zurich. Bale, 19 15. An album of 
56 pages. 



126 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

women arrive who had been captured during the 
summer, and still wore summer clothes. They 
had to be provided with everything. Great 
clothing depots were established at each halting- 
place, and in this connection " public generosity " 
— to use the words of the Federal Council — per- 
haps showed the greatest activity. Huge quan- 
tities of clothing, shoes, and hats for men, 
women, and children were accumulated at all the 
centres. At Schaffhausen, a town right on the 
frontier in German Switzerland, the evacuated 
had so cordial a reception that the least that 
can be said of it is that it was simply brotherly. 
In a single day six hundred packages were 
handed in.* These figures give some idea of 
what was done in each of the stopping-places; 
and it must be noted that this number includes 
only parcels sent to the commissioners. The 
evacuated received many additional presents in 
the street as they went along. At a later date, 
when the service had been militarized, France 
forwarded many clothes to the stopping-places. 
As for feeding, this was provided at each town 

* The town of Schaffhausen has only about 15,000 
inhabitants, of whom 4,000 are foreigners — Germans 
for the most part. At Geneva parcels from all parts of 
the canton were delivered in great numbers. Their 
total cannot be given, as their contents flowed forth 
daily, like a stream. 



HISTORICAL NOTE 127 

according to its capacity. At Geneva it was 
managed chiefly by the model establismeut of the 
public kitchens and at a temperance restaurant 
in Montbrillant.* 

At Schaffhausen, where there is no great 
system of public kitchens, the evacuated .were 
distributed in detachments among various res- 
taurants and hotels in the town. At Zurich, 
refreshments were provided in the station itself. 
At Geneva sleeping accommodation was provided 
by army mattresses loaned by the State and placed 
in school premises — one of the most favoured 
having bedsteads; while at Schaffhausen the 
Federal Commissioners had made arrangements 
with several hotels, and the evacuated, when 
they arrived from Germany, found the comforts 
of a good bath and a good bed awaiting them. 

It was in some cases very difficult to provide 
accommodation and supplies. It often happened 
that trains came in behind time, or that they 
contained many more passengers than were ex- 
pected, and means must be found of catering for 
all. Sometimes, again, the trains came one on 
the heels of the other, and were not signalled 
till the very last moment; so that to be ready 

* For supply services at Geneva, see Le passage des 
internes civils d Geneve, by Lucie Achard. Extract from 
the 49th Report of the Central Committee of the 
Charitable Board, Geneva, 191 5. 



128 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

for anything that might happen the commis- 
sioners had. to be permanently on duty from 
the early hours of the morning till the last thing 
at night. 

Here is a single example, taken from the 
official report of the Schaffhausen Committee, 
of the difficulties encountered: 

On January 23, 1915, two trains, containing 
578 and 739 internees respectively, entered the 
station almost at the same moment. At 9 p.m. 
on the previous day we had been warned to 
expect them. The quarters assigned to the 
travellers had to be kept warm all night, and a 
sufficiency of food, besides milk for the children, to 
be provided. The many articles of baggage had 
to be forwarded each to its proper destination.* 

At 10.55 the first train started for Geneva. 
The second division remained at Schaffhausen 
all day. The people were a particularly miser- 
able-looking lot, and the Schaffhausen folk came 
in thousands to help the poor unfortunates as 
they passed along, or in their hotels. The news- 
paper report ends on this sober note: "It was 
one of the hardest days we had had, and we 
can say with satisfaction that everyone did his 
duty conscientiously and devotedly." 

* A single train carried upwards of 16,000 pounds of 
baggage in large articles. The cost of supplies and 
baggage handling on that day rose to 3,789-05 francs. 



HISTORICAL NOTE 129 



In the street commissioners of both sexes were 
engaged in carrying children and paicels — though 
sometimes the owners would not on any account 
part with them at the station* — and the popu- 
lace generally often lent a helping hand. In 
the restaurant they assisted the regular staff, 
which was naturally overwhelmed, and one saw 
" chains " of servants, containing representa- 
tives of all classes — w r orkmen, professors, police, 
and magistrates, brought closer together by 
kindly action than by any amount of patriotic 
talk — handing bowls of soup, plates of meat, 
dessert, and cups of coffee along the line. 

At every stopping-place throughout the journey 
the repatriated travellers received clothes, dain- 
ties, toys for the children, and so on. 

Money-Changing. — At the termini — Schaff- 
hausen and Geneva — any travellers who so wished 
could exchange foreign money in their possession 
at the most favourable rates. 

Postal Arrangements. — The commissioners dis- 
tributed post-cards, in most cases franked — at 
Schaffhausen, at the beginning, all were franked. 
At Geneva a kind of post office was established 
in the premises allotted for the accommodation 
of the evacuated, and a considerable number 

* The baggage was in some cases of a most extra- 
ordinary kind, and such as could onty be explained by 
the suffering like their possessors. 

9 



130 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

of letters and telegrams were handled in 
them. 

Correspondence. — The repatriation offices of the 
divisional commissioners received letters addressed 
to the refugees. At Geneva the names of ad- 
dressees were written up on notice-boards to 
attract the attention of people as they arrived. 
The letters were arranged in alphabetical order, 
and so could be delivered to people as they went 
past. 

The Berne Repatriation Bureau received and 
forwarded, thanks to the assistance of voluntary 
helpers, more than 52,878 postal parcels up to 
the beginning of March, when the convoys passed 
under military control. 

Search for the Missing. — During their passage 
through Switzerland the travellers are informed 
of the Geneva Prisoners' Agency (International 
Red Cross) established to search for the missing. 
Also, the Geneva Bureau publishes lists of all 
the repatriated who have crossed Switzerland, 
giving their surnames, Christian^names, age, and 
place of domicile in France.* These lists, drawn 
up till February 29, 1916, were sent by the 
Geneva Bureau to all the prisoners' camps in 

* See the Lists of Interned [or evacuated] French 
Civilians drawn up under the care of M. Audeoud. 
Paris, Lyons, and Geneva. There are already eight of 
them and one supplement. 



HISTORICAL NOTE 131 

Germany, and interned Frenchmen in the camps 
were thus enabled to consult them and find 
out what persons of their locality had been re- 
patriated. 

Medical Attendance. — At all the halting-places 
people appointed to give the evacuated travellers 
medical attention were always in attendance — 
representatives of the Red Cross, Samaritans, 
male and female nurses, and so on. Doctors 
presided, and volunteer stretcher-bearers and 
motor-cars, kindly lent by their owners, were 
available for medical work and transported the 
worst cases. 

At Schaffhausen a receiving infirmary of four 
wards, with beds, was established in the station ; 
at Zurich the doctors visited patients in the 
carriages themselves ; and at Geneva a completely 
equipped infirmary was directed by a doctor. 
It occupied the school buildings in Berne Street, 
and was of considerable service. 

All the convoys included a number of sick. 
The serious cases were sent to the hospitals. 
From one detachment forty-five sick were des- 
patched either to the infirmary or the hospital 
at Schaffhausen. But the medical service was 
most patronized at Geneva. It was supported 
by the Samaritan Society. Between October, 
1914, and January, 1916, the doctor attached to 
the infirmary had to treat 8,951 cases, which 



132 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

represent 8*23 per cent, of the 108,564 persons 
repatriated from the various belligerent coun- 
tries.* Fifty-nine cases were taken to the 
Geneva hospitals. 

Deaths. — Some deaths have unfortunately to be 
recorded: those of travellers who suddenly fell 
ill on the journey, of invalids who had been in- 
sufficiently cared for during their captivity and 
moving from place to place, and of exhausted 
old folk, etc. At Schaffhausen two died; at 
Zurich one young girl, aged twenty-two. On 
each occasion the body was followed to the 
cemetery by commissioners and inhabitants. 
Stones were set up on the graves of these poor 
victims. At Geneva sixteen deaths had to be 
registered-! 

Statistics.— The many kinds of equipment needed 
at stopping-places necessarily involved consider- 
able expense, which was defrayed by gifts. It 
is not possible to give exact figures of the expen- 
diture up to the time of militarization, nor of the 

* Dr. Jean Keser, The Infirmary for Interned and 
Evacuated Civilians in the Rue de Berne, Geneva : a 
pamphlet. Geneva, 1916. The following are some par- 
ticulars of the cases treated: Digestive system, i,935i 
circulatory system and blood disorders, 1,203 ; respiratory 
system, 1,198; bruises, wounds, abscesses, ulcers, 1,113; 
skin disorders, 948; nervous system, 857; eye troubles, 
416; etc. These statistics have been kept up-to-date. 

f Up to January 31, 1916. 



HISTORICAL NOTE 133 

sums paid out. Many of the last were made in- 
dividually by members of the Committee, and 
did not appear in the common funds. However, 
some figures can be given. At Zurich the Com- 
mittee collected, up to the end of December, 
1915, the sum of 75,000 francs. It is equally 
impossible to learn the exact value of gifts in 
kind.* Basing our calculations on information 
given by the Committees at Zurich and Geneva 
(the first, be it noted, only began to act in March, 
1915), we may say without fear of exaggeration 
that the clothing distributed at the various 
stopping-places represents alone a market value 
of about 800,000 to 1,000,000 francs. 

Betwee n October 24, 1914, and March 31, 1916, 
523 con voys passed through Switzerland, and of 
these 148 were Austro-German. The 375 French 
convoys transported 97,753 persons, of whom 
19,940 were men, 45,834 women, 10,584 children 
less than four years old, and 21,895 children from 
four to thirteen years of age. 

* We refer only to gifts of clothing; others cannot 
possibly have a value set on them. In all towns through 
which the convoys passed, associations of kindly people 
collected many gifts for the repatriated. The same applies 
to other towns not traversed by the convoys. We must 
remember that when repatriation was entrusted to the 
Territorial organization {i.e., in March, 1915) the French 
Government contributed largely to the re-equipmeat 
of the refugees. 



134 THE VICTIMS' RETURN 

The 148 Austro-German convoys transported 
1,678 men, 9,557 women, 906 children less than 
four years old, and 1,545 children from four to 
thirteen years of age — 13,686 persons in all. 

In addition to the repatriated, we can affirm 
that Switzerland has restored to their respective 
countries, without distinction of nationality, 
some tii,439 persons. 

These statistics end with March 31. Since 
then a few convoys have gone through, and at 
the time of writing we are notified of others. 

EUGENE PITTARD. 



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